


Save Me From Myself

by cecropia, YellowMustard



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Artist Connor Murphy (Dear Evan Hansen), Artist Evan Hansen, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Treebros, it's deh u know what ur getting into ok, mentions of an eating disorder, mentions of overdose, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2020-10-13 04:53:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 28,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20576786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cecropia/pseuds/cecropia, https://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowMustard/pseuds/YellowMustard
Summary: A couple of lines sketched messily across the page.A face, maybe. Sure.Connor’s always been decent at those.(A sketchbook passes from hand to hand. The pages fill.)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> hiiiiiiiiiii!!! :-) feels good to be back  
me n my ultra-mega-bff YellowMustard have decided to COLLAB this is v exciting  
let us know what you think so far!!!! the next chapter should be out soon and this first one is pretty short
> 
> come talk to me! c-e-c-r-o-p-i-a on tumblr :-)  
YM has a tumblr as well - theyellowestmustard
> 
> thanks for reading <3

A couple of lines sketched messily across the page. 

A face, maybe. Sure. 

Connor’s always been decent at those. 

A couple of marks to suggest a chin, then the jaw, then the ears—

Too big. Fuck. Eraser shavings are scattered across the page and Connor wipes at them more harshly than he probably should. 

Okay, so he’s got the ears, now onto the actual face, which. Fuck symmetry, honestly. 

The first eye isn’t bad, as it usually isn’t, but the attempt at the other eye is just wrong and awful and lopsided and Connor just wants to rip the whole page out now because he had something decent looking and now there’s a giant fucking dark spot that he can’t erase away because he pressed too hard. Because he always presses too hard. 

His family would say that, too. 

In a bout of frustration he quickly tears the page out of the sketchbook, crumbling it up and tossing it across his room with a groan. 

For a moment he feels bad, but then he’s just angry at himself. He’s angry because he can’t fucking draw and he’s angry that his family sucks and he’s angry that he’s not normal, he’ll never just be _ normal _. He can’t have a normal life, he can’t have the things that functioning members of society have like actual friends or a social life or a romantic partner, maybe, and he’s just. Angry. 

He’s angry at the world.

But, like an idiot, Connor flips to the next page and tries again. He gives himself another chance. What’s one more? 

And as he’s rather aggressively putting in the detailing of the hair he ends up ripping through half the paper with his pencil, which kind of represents his entire life, really. He considers chucking his pencil and the sketchbook straight out the window or dumping it in the river that runs through Ellison where no one could ever find it, but before he can even think about that he puts pencil to paper and covers the entire page in one giant, angry word:

FAILURE. 

Because that’s what he is.

But. 

Maybe not for long, if he plays his cards right. 

No, there’s one thing he can be sure he doesn’t fail at. Not if he does it right. 

He’s still gripping the tiny book in his hands, arms shaking and knuckles yellowing from how hard he’s pressing his fingers into the worn leather cover. He can’t put it down, it seems, and. 

He should at least leave someone with an explanation, right? Even if it’s some random unsuspecting passerby who just wanted to go on a nice hike and smell the fresh air. 

Connor reopens the little sketchbook, flipping through the pages. How is he going to do this? Is he just going to leave this open to the right page next to his body at that stupid fucking park? Leave it somewhere hidden so no one has to experience his corpse and also his note at the same time? Does he even care? 

He’s already planned it all out, is the thing. He can’t change tactics now. It’s happening at the park, tonight, around 3 am, and it’s going to be the first thing he’s ever actually succeeded at.

And throughout all this planning, he’s never really stopped to think about explanations. He figures everything’s pretty clear already. 

But people talk. Especially teenagers. They want to know the why and the where and the how, and if that’s the last thing Connor does, he should probably do it right. 

And then Connor’s writing the note in his head. Maybe he’ll start it with _ to whoever’s had the misfortune of finding me. _ Or maybe _ to whoever’s had the misfortune of knowing me _. That seems more accurate. Will he write to his sister? His parents? The assholes at school, the teachers who didn’t believe in him? That one janitor that let him sleep in the supply closet for his free period when he was so fucked up he couldn’t walk straight?

Realistically, does he have _ anyone _ to write to?

As he’s flipping through absentmindedly, a page gets caught on his thumb. He glances down, as is human nature, and he has to blink his eyes into focus because. 

The top corner. Folded over like you’d mark a page in a novel. 

He pushes it back with a single finger. 

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evan flings his backpack off his shoulder and begins tearing through the contents with newfound urgency, trying to stem the tremors of his fingers at the same time.
> 
> Because this will work. It will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya, YellowMustard here! Welcome to the Evan chapter! I hope you enjoy reading as much as I've enjoyed collaborating so far (seriously, does ao3 bring people together or WHAT?) 
> 
> Thank you so so much for the all comments and kudos left on the prologue; my partner-in-crime and overall Rad Human cecropia and I really appreciate it. 
> 
> c-e-c-r-o-p-i-a and theyellowestmustard can be found on tumblr!
> 
> **TW: Panic Attack

* * *

It's starting.

Evan can always tell. He's learnt to recognize the signs, you see. Like with fainting, or seizures.

Evan's only fainted once before. He was just a kid, maybe eleven or so, and he'd gotten up too fast after having blood drawn. He still remembers the odd prickling sensation at the back of his neck, the uncomfortable rush of cold then hot then cold again, the feeling of disconnection, of losing grip, of drifting away.

Panic attacks are a bit like that, too. Except... just a billion times worse, honestly. Sickly and sudden and awful.

And one is on its way. It's starting.

OK.

OK.

Evan tries to focus on his surroundings, to reel himself in before he's swept away. Doctor Sherman has told him to focus on his breathing when this happens, but that only ever makes Evan feel worse; he becomes hyper focused on the quickening _ thud thud thud _ of his heart and the ache of his lungs with each shrieking gasp of air.

So Evan zeros in on his environment, instead. It usually helps. It's a technique he's read about online; the whole method of grounding the senses, of being present in your surroundings to keep the spiraling at bay.

Hearing, first. What can Evan hear?

Birds. The twittering of birds. He's not sure what type; he can't tell birds apart just by their calls. But he knows that blue jays and cardinals and sparrows frequent this particular nature reserve; he sees them all the time.

He used to try and spot birds at Ellison, but he doesn't go there anymore.

Just the thought makes him feel like he might throw up.

Focus. 

Birds.

What else?

The dead leaves under his feet. Wind in the branches above him.

Voices? No. No voices. He visits this part of the reserve for the sole reason that it's not that popular with visitors, because the walking trail is all overgrown. It's silent, isolated, just how Evan likes it.

He listens.

Nothing else. 

Next sense, then. Smell.

Evan takes a deep breath in through his nose and tries to detect the smell of...just anything, really. Anything that he can pin down, that he can label. 

Labels are secure. Labels are safe.

He breathes in and out and in again and he smells...nothing. 

Just cold air, which makes the tip of his nose go numb, and his chest hurt, and then he's aware that his breathing still feels kind of ragged, kind of erratic, and it seems like maybe it's getting worse? And his heart is pounding and his stomach is swirling, and surely it's not normal to feel this amount of nauseating dread without a reason, there has to be a _ reason, right? _ And then Evan's mind is racing to catch up, to identify the _ why _ , the reason, even though there _ is _ no reason, as there often isn't. But his brain tries anyway, tries to analyze and classify and resolve, because that's what brains _ do _, they try to make sense of irrationality, and then Evan's fast-forwarding through every potential mistake, every possible thing he could have fucked up in the past few weeks that could be causing this awful fucking feeling, and of course he comes up with a million different potential triggers, and then has to stop and think about all of them, and his breathing is staggered and thready, now, and...

And no. He needs to stop. 

He needs to fucking stop.

Sight.

Let's just...try sight. 

What can he see?

Grass. Dirt. Rocks. Trees. Sunlight streaming through them, the last few threads of day. His sneakers and his legs and his arms and his hands, and his hands are shaking a little, and his knees feel weak, and the air in his lungs still isn't sitting quite right, it's fluttering, like an animal trying to escape, but when he forcefully exhales and lets the air out the fluttering feeling just gets worse, and.

And OK. This isn't working. 

But…

But if he can get his hands to stop shaking, he thinks he knows something that will.

It doesn’t work when he’s well and truly gone, when the tunnel vision has kicked in and he can’t breathe or think or speak. When the attack is in full force.

But, in the early stages, when it’s just beginning to bubble inside him…

Evan flings his backpack off his shoulder and begins tearing through the contents with newfound urgency, trying to stem the tremors of his fingers at the same time.

Because it’ll work. It will.

He finds the pencil case first. Travel-sized, grey canvas. Light and compact, with the comforting clatter of pencils inside.

He tosses it to the forest floor and keeps digging.

The thing is, Evan’s not good at many things. 

His mom says he’s a great writer, and he gets high praise from his English teachers year after year, but really, he’s just good at following instructions. At doing what he’s told. He knows how to structure an essay, and he knows the generally accepted interpretations of most of the books they have to study, and he knows what teachers are looking for, usually. So he just...follows the format, sprinkles in a few “ergos” and “furthermores”, and he gets an A. It’s not hard.

It doesn’t mean he’s good at writing. He doesn’t _ feel _ good at writing. 

But putting pencil to paper to capture images, pictures. That’s different. 

When Evan tries to describe a setting or a person or a feeling with words, he always gets the niggling sensation that he’s chosen the wrong ones, like they don’t fit right with what he’s seeing in his head. 

But when Evan draws, everything matches. Everything fits.

It’s calming. Steady.

And he’s...he actually feels like he’s _ good _ at it, maybe? Not every day. Some days he looks at his sketches and wants to stick his head in a blender. But other days, he's quietly kind of proud of himself, because they're actually... decent, he thinks? He gets plenty of practice, after all. It’s not like his diary is packed full of social engagements with his hundreds of friends. 

Evan draws pictures of things he likes. Which means that he doesn’t often draw people. He’s tried, a couple of times, but it only served as a reminder of the _ lack _ of people in Evan’s life. And he's not good with faces. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t look at them enough; when Evan talks to anyone, his eyes are usually fixed on the ground.

Evan draws plants and flowers and cool bugs. He draws moths and mushrooms and the blue jays he sees in the reserve. He has his favorites, the things he goes back to and draws again and again, like old friends. But he likes finding new things, too, new little specks of life he discovers in parks and forests and sometimes even just his own backyard. He likes immortalizing them in graphite. He likes making them last.

Evan keeps rifling through the backpack, a crease beginning to form between his eyebrows. He digs out a pile of school books and an empty water bottle and a slightly crushed granola bar, then thinks fuck it and upends the entire contents of his bag onto the ground, getting dirt on everything but he doesn’t care because he’s getting panicky, and beginning to feel the icy grip of fear too.

Because it’s not there.

It’s not _ there _.

And where else could it _ be _ , where _ is it? _ He scrambles through the pile of stuff, and in a moment of desperation even shakes the empty backpack, but to no avail.

Fuck. 

Fuckfuckfuck.

He could have left it at home, of course. It’s probably at home. 

But he’s _ sure _ he had it at school earlier in the day. He’s _ positive. _ Because he’d been scribbling in it during his free period, then again in the library during lunch, and sure he’d stopped at home after school before heading out again, but he hadn’t taken anything out of his bag at home, which means that he’s left it at school, he’s left it at _ school _ , pages and pages worth of pencils sketches, of progress and hard work all _ lost. _

Or worse. 

Because somebody’s probably found it. Someone’s probably looking through it _right now_, and _judging_, and _no _Evan hadn’t put his name on the book anywhere but someone's probably figured out that it's Evan's, because they've probably seen him drawing in it, or something, and they've probably photocopied every single page and passed it around for the whole school to see, and now Evan's gonna be known as the weird loner that draws bugs and trees, and is he just completely fooling himself, do his drawings actually just fucking suck? Probably. Definitely. What does Evan know about art, anyway? Evan’s fucking delusional if he thinks he's _good_ at drawing, because Evan isn’t good at _anything_, and now the whole school is going to _know_ it, and it's starting.

It's started.

Evan tries the senses things again. He tries to clear his mind. He tries to just _ breathe _.

But it's too late, and he's alone, crouched in the dirt, the contents of his backpack strewn about everywhere, and it starts.

It starts, and it doesn't stop.

He's swept away.

  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor likes to imagine a time when he might have passed them in the hall. When they might have made eye contact in passing, or might have done one of those awkward tight-lipped smiles that you do when you vaguely recognize someone or make accidental eye contact. Maybe they’ve watched from the crowd as Connor was made fun of. 
> 
> Maybe they joined in. 
> 
> Or maybe they’ve never noticed him at all. Maybe they’ve never even given him a second thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again sorry it took so long lol i am ~struggling~ to scrape through college at the moment so pray 4 me  
hope you enjoy!!!!! remember comments are our life fuel <3333
> 
> come talk to us! c-e-c-r-o-p-i-a and theyellowestmustard on tumblr :-)

The book is burning a hole where it’s nestled in between some other stupid notebooks that Connor doesn’t use at the bottom of his backpack. 

It’s been three days. 

And he feels… guilty, if he’s being honest with himself. Because he knows he should give it back to the kid who it belongs to, it’s not  _ his _ . But it’s like every time he glances down at it he feels a little bit better, like the weight on his shoulders is just a little bit lighter, like he can breathe a little bit easier. 

Maybe he should just leave it somewhere. He can’t really remember where he even found it, exactly, but he remembers one thing— he came to school one day empty handed and left with that little book in his sweatshirt pocket and he really hasn’t put it down since. 

He reaches down and takes it out of his bag, turns it over in his hands. 

Two sharp knocks on his door frame. Connor startles, but doesn’t let it show. 

“Dinner,” Zoe says shortly, rolling her fucking eyes like she was forced at gunpoint to come up, like, five stairs and deliver this message. He hears her creaking down the stairs and flips to that page again, pushes back that little corner and takes a deep, deep breath. He exhales slowly, what his mom used to have him do to control his anger back when she actually cared. 

It’s fine. He’s fine. He can just zone out during dinner and then go back to his weird fantasy world afterward and pretend like dinner never happened. 

Connor pulls his sleeves down, stretching his arms above his head and then he shoves the book somewhere between his comforter and his sheets and his pillow. God forbid Zoe’s nosy ass finds her way into his room before Connor can. 

Or his parents. That would be a nightmare. 

He sits down in front of whatever Cynthia’s latest diet craze has created and easily slips into that state of mind that used to be impossible to reach. He used to get so  _ angry _ , hearing everything they’d say about him even when they weren’t talking, and then their reactions would just make him  _ angrier _ and he’d fight and scream, but. It’s just not worth it anymore. It doesn’t get him anywhere. 

So this is where he goes. He knows they talk about him like he’s not there because he really isn’t, not completely; he’s floating above his body, he’s watching everything unfold from an outsider’s perspective and he’s okay with that. 

Zoe’s rolling her eyes about something. Larry’s talking at him. Cynthia looks too scared to say anything. 

And it’s quiet in Connor’s head. No one can touch him here. 

His mind starts to wander to that fucking book again. Like, the fact that there’s someone out there (let alone someone at his goddamn  _ school _ ) that’s possibly just as fucked up as he is… it’s kind of unreal. Knowing that someone’s out there who to a certain extent  _ understands _ him, he just. Had no idea people like him existed. 

Not to sound all narcissistic or whatever, but Connor had always assumed he was the only one who… y’know. Had so many  _ problems _ . Including problems just trying to stay alive. Especially in that fucking school with those perfect people and useless teachers and—

But that’s not the point. This person, whoever they are, they probably  _ get _ him. They understand what it’s like to be fucked up. To spend every waking moment planning the day they can finally  _ not wake up _ . 

But. Maybe it’s all just wishful thinking. 

Connor likes to imagine a time when he might have passed them in the hall. When they might have made eye contact in passing, or might have done one of those awkward tight-lipped smiles that you do when you vaguely recognize someone or make accidental eye contact. Maybe they’ve watched from the crowd as Connor was made fun of. 

Maybe they joined in. 

Or maybe they’ve never noticed him at all. Maybe they’ve never even given him a second thought.

Maybe he should leave them a note when he returns the book. Something simple. But what would he even say?  _ Hey, sorry for scribbling in your book a million times _ ? Or, like,  _ hey, wanna have an awkward conversation and then never speak again? _

Zoe taps him on the arm and he flinches. But for once, she doesn’t do it in ill will. 

“Connor. Dinner’s over.”

He blinks at her for a second, trying to decipher her tone, but. It doesn’t seem like she’s trying to be a bitch, so. 

“Oh,” He says in lieu of a response. 

She studies him for a second. Narrows her eyes just the slightest amount, knits her eyebrows together just enough to be noticeable. 

“Are you… ? You haven’t… you’re really zoned out.” 

He blinks at her. Why is she asking? Why does she suddenly give a shit about Connor’s well-being?

“Are you high?”

It’s a moment of static. Like neither of them are really sure what to say. And Zoe looks like she’s not even sure why she said it in the first place, like she wants to run, or. 

Like she’s afraid of Connor’s reaction. Afraid of him. 

“Why the fuck do you care?” He mumbles, shoving back from the table and trying to ignore the pain turned indifference in her eyes. 

… 

_ Who are you _ . 

Too… menacing, Connor thinks. He lets a sharp breath out through his nose, shaking his head and erasing the page so hard he’s afraid it might rip. 

It doesn’t, though, this time. 

He tries again. 

_ I like your drawings _ . 

Better, but. He needs to write something else too, right? An explanation of why he’s even had the book this long, or something?

Under that, he writes:

_ Sorry I kept your book for so long.  _

But then he takes a second, staring down at the page and tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. He gnaws on the end of the pencil. That makes it sound like he’s been, like… keeping it for some creepy reason, or something. Which he kind of did, technically, but he doesn’t really want this person to know that. 

He scribbles that last part out since the page is already so marked up from how many times he’s pressed pencil to page but then immediately changed his mind. 

He moves to the other side of the page. 

_ I’m Connor _ . 

That’s worse, somehow. He’s not sure how, but it is. Because. There’s no way this person wants to be his fucking friend. 

Right. 

Because who would want to be friends with the creepy school shooter emo kid that stole their  _ private _ sketchbook and kept it for almost a  _ week _ ? 

So he scribbles that out too, leaving just one small line of words across the page. It’s good enough. It’s basically anonymous, so there’s no way they could track him down, and it’s vague enough that they have no idea how many hours Connor spent thinking about the idea of having someone to call a friend. 

They have no idea how pathetic he is. 

Now all he has to do is drop the book somewhere in the school and this whole thing can finally be over. He’ll be back to his stupid lonely depressing existence and it’ll all feel normal again. 

He just has to figure out where to leave it. 

… 

“You’re some kind of secret genius, aren’t you? Like, you act all  _ emo _ and  _ tough _ and  _ scary _ but you’re really just  _ dying _ to get your hands on our project, right?”

Connor lets his glare slide slowly over to the boy sitting next to him.

He’s unphased. “Because, y’know, I've got a lot of shit going on right now. My  _ nerd _ friend always needs rides home from school, and I promised my dudes I’d play PUBG with them tomorrow, and we’re having a LAN party on the twenty-third…”

Connor’s gaze settles back on the front of the room as Jared Kleinman ticks off fake responsibilities on his fingers. 

They’ve got the rest of the period free to talk about this fucking project that no one gives a shit about, but Connor still hasn’t decided where to leave this goddamn sketchbook. The bathroom is out, because that’s fucking gross, and he can’t just leave it in the hallway because someone else might find it and take it, and— if he just knew who this person  _ is— _

“You’re not even listening.”

Connor takes a deep breath. 

“Nope.”

And Jared laughs at him. “Of  _ course _ you're not. You’re high as a fucking kite right now, aren’t you, Murphy? Shoulda known.”

Connor lets his eyes slip shut. He leans forward and rests his arms on the desk, burying his face in them and then peeking out to the side Jared’s  _ not _ on so he can focus on something other than his grating voice. The sketchbook is sitting beneath his chemistry textbook and his calculator, he notes, and pretty soon he’s got it resting under his right arm and he’s doodling absentmindedly while Jared probably continues to talk in the background. He wouldn’t know. He’s become an expert at tuning things out. 

And when the bell finally rings and he’s on his way to his next class, he makes his decision. 

But before he enters the room he takes one last peek at the dog-eared corner that he’s opened and reopened countless times, committing the curves of the o’s and the looping l’s to memory. Just three simple words: 

  
_ Don’t kill yourself _ . 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He finds himself turning it over in his hands, like he’s testing out the weight, and then he opens it, and yep, there they are; the caterpillars he knows are sketched on the first page. He flips through it urgently, even though it’s his, and he knows it’s his, but it’s comforting, it’s a relief to see all his familiar art again, not defaced, no pages torn out or anything, it’s all still there just as he left it, his birds and flowers and trees and mushrooms and.
> 
> And…
> 
> And a face. 
> 
> A face he’s never seen before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaack! Here's Evan again! I'm almost on a work break for a couple of weeks so HOPEFULLY I'll be writing a bunch pretty soon. This chapter only got cranked out so fast because whenever cecropia writes anything it's like my writer brain switches on and i just HAVE TO START CRAMMING WORDS TOGETHER like. Immediately. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the kudos and comments left so far! We love you and appreciate every last one <3
> 
> come talk to us! c-e-c-r-o-p-i-a and theyellowestmustard on tumblr :-)

* * *

Evan thinks about the sketchbook situation for 48 consecutive hours.

Non-stop.

Like... _ actually _ non-stop. 

It’s bad. It’s really bad; one of the worst anxiety attacks he’s ever had. It feels like his brain is a  broken web link, a relentless chain of  _ redirect-refresh-loop, redirect-refresh-loop _ , and his cursor is frozen and he can’t close the browser and he’s trapped, and the screen just keeps flicking back to the same page, over and over and over.

_ Someone has probably found his book. _

_ Someone is probably looking at his terrible drawings. _

_ Someone is probably going to make the rest of his high school life a living hell. _

_ And if nobody has found his book, that means that hours of work, of progress, are lost. Gone. _

_ Unless someone has found the book. _

_ And if someone has found the book, they’re probably looking at his terrible drawings. _

Redirect, Refresh, Loop.

Evan loses sleep over it. 

Wakes up every hour, on the hour, his heart pounding. 

He tries everything to make it stop. Mindfulness and breathing exercises and distracting himself with homework. 

He even goes out and buys himself a new sketchbook, hoping that drawing will help ease his nerves, but it has the opposite effect and the second he puts pencil to paper he can’t stop thinking about the  _ first _ sketchbook  _ (redirect-refresh-loop)  _ and the fact that it’s probably circulated around the whole school by now  _ (redirect-refresh-loop)  _ and his new sketchbook doesn’t feel right anyway and it’s too big and bulky and his pencil’s all scratchy against the paper and he just can’t draw, and maybe he never  _ could  _ draw  _ (redirect-refresh-loop)  _ and then he ends up just tossing the new sketchbook under his bed and spending the rest of the evening in an odd state of sulky panic.  


He tears his bedroom apart several times over, rifles through drawers and shelves and cupboards, to no avail. He tries down the sides of the couch, the backseat of his mom's car (even though she hasn't driven him to school in weeks). His anxiety-brain urges him to check in more and more outlandish places, and it doesn't matter how many times he logically insists to himself that  _ no, it's  _ _ not _ _ gonna be in the mailbox _ , his brain won't let it go, won't stop bombarding him with  _ but what if what if what if  _ until he looks. At least three times.

At school it’s even worse.

He checks in lost and found, and his locker, and the library. He asks his homeroom teacher if she’s seen it, and asking a teacher an actual question makes his palms sweat and his knees shake, and he’s mentally exhausted by the end of the twenty-second interaction. She offers him a kind smile and tells him she’ll keep an eye out for it.

Each time he walks down the hallway he finds his eyes anxiously darting over the walls, half expecting to see photocopies of his own drawings taped everywhere, for everyone to see.

  
  


Or worse: photocopies of his stupid little reminder to himself. Maybe with like. The ‘don’t’ scribbled out.

And 48 hours pass like this. In this nervous, clammy haze. Evan’s heart has been racing for so long he’s beginning to forget what it normally feels like, and then he starts to question if his heart rate has  _ ever  _ been steady in his entire life, and that just...raises even more issues.

  
  


He wants to ask someone for help. But there’s nobody to ask.

  
  


His mom wouldn’t understand. She wouldn’t. She’d just tut sympathetically and buy him another sketchbook, all nicely wrapped up in a “never mind, honey, it can’t be helped.” 

  
  


She’d miss the point completely. Evan’s sure.

  
  


And he can’t ask Jared. He obviously  _ can’t  _ ask Jared. 

So as he usually does, Evan finds himself alone. 

  
  


Shaky and sweaty and sick and alone. Stuck on repeat. 

  
  


For 48 hours.

  
  


And he’s not sure what possesses him to do it, in the end. 

  
  


Maybe it’s the insistence of his anxiety-brain that  _ it’s the one place you haven’t looked, you  _ _ have _ _ to look, you  _ _ have to. _

Maybe it’s like. Some sort of premonition. Divine intervention or whatever.

It doesn’t even make sense. Evan doesn’t even _take _art; hasn’t since middle school. He’s way too self-conscious to draw in front of other people, or _show_ _his art_ to anyone. He’s never even set foot in the art room.

  
  


But the thought niggles away at him.

  
  


_ Because if someone  _ _ did _ _ find it, maybe they’d think it’s an art project or something? Like, an assignment? It would make sense for them to leave it there, right? _

  
  


He waits until after the last bell. Waits until the hallway is empty, and he’s certain there’s no classes running, no teachers milling about.

  
  


And he slips quietly into the art room.

  
  


And holy fucking shit.

  
  


He doesn’t even have to look around, because it’s  _ right fucking there.  _

  
  


Perched on the edge of a desk in the back row, like it’s waiting for him, specifically. 

He finds himself frozen, staring at it in disbelief, his stream-of-consciousness halted into  _ no way no way no way _ , eyes skimming over the cover in a frenzy, like he’s half expecting to notice some sign that it’s not actually his book.

But the spine is cracked, like his. And there’s a pencil smudge along the corner, like his. And the pages are a little dog-earred, and some of them are folded over, like his.

  
  


It’s his. Definitely.

  
  


Evan pounces on it.

  
  


He finds himself turning it over in his hands, like he’s testing out the weight, and then he opens it, and yep, there they are; the caterpillars he knows are sketched on the first page. He flips through it urgently, even though it’s  _ his _ , and he  _ knows  _ it’s his, but it’s comforting, it’s a relief to see all his familiar art again, not defaced, no pages torn out or anything, it’s all still there just as he left it, his birds and flowers and trees and mushrooms and.

  
  


And…

And a face. 

  
  


A face he’s never seen before.

It’s half scribbled out, a dark, angry vortex of pencil covering most of it, made with so much pressure there are heavy indentations in the paper. Frightened eyes peer out from behind the scrawl. 

‘Help me’ eyes. 

Evan relates.

In awe, he finds himself tracing his hand carefully over the face, the scribble masking it from view, and the motion leaves his fingers smeared with graphite. 

He doesn’t understand.

  
  


Because firstly, someone has been drawing in his book. In  _ his  _ book. 

He’s not, like. Mad about it, or anything. He just...doesn’t understand why. 

  
  


And secondly...he doesn’t understand why the face has been scribbled away.

  
  


Because it’s...it’s really good. Beautiful, even. It’s unbelievably lifelike, and the details that Evan can spot in between the gaps of scribble make his breath catch in his throat. The smattering of freckles along the nose, the little scar in the corner of the eyebrow. The light caught in the eyes, and the shading under the jaw. It’s incredible. It’s like...a million times better than anything Evan’s  _ ever _ put in the book.

  
  


But whoever drew it clearly...hated it? Was like.  _ Angry  _ about it. 

  
  


He just doesn’t understand  _ why. _

  
  


Almost in a daze, Evan turns the page, now unsure of what else he’s likely to find. 

  
  


And over the page, there’s more of them. Faces, all different ones. All scrawled out with such aggression that it makes Evan kind of startle a bit. He flips to the next page, then the next, and there’s more and more of them. Three whole pages filled with eraser smudges and heavy-handed scribble, like the pencil’s been held in a fist, puncture marks littering the paper. On the third page the Mystery Scribbler has pressed so hard he’s torn the paper completely in half, and a chunk of it hangs limply, clinging to the spine for dear life.

  
  


Evan finds himself squinting through the mess of pencil, eyes latching onto eyes and noses and chins and lips.  


They’re all different people. Girls and boys, men and women. One that looks intentionally drawn to be neither. Different ages, different races, different distinguishing features.

  
  


But they all look so  _ sad.  _

And they’ve all been scrawled out in a fit of rage.

On the fourth page, the word _FAILURE _sends an odd, prickling sensation settling over Evan's skin. Each towering letter hurts. 

If Evan created a list of words to describe himself, _failure _would be at the very top.

He's starting to feel kind of queasy.

  
  


Evan finds himself checking every last page of the book. Just in case there’s anything else.  


But that’s all. Just four pages. The rest of the book is still blank.

  
  


Except for the second-last page.

  
  


There’s another drawing there.

And it’s intact. Visible.  
  


It’s messily done; just a rough sketch. A figure, skinny and angular, facing away from Evan. They’re lying in bed on top of the covers, knees pulled up to their chest, long hair trailing everywhere. 

Evan can’t see the face, but whoever it is looks so...heartbreakingly small.

  
  


But that’s not all.

  
  


Evan kind of feels like he has tunnel vision. He’s barely aware of where he is. The whole school could be crumbling to the ground and he probably wouldn’t notice. 

  
  


_ I like your drawings. _

  
  


Evan’s face goes hot.

He’s vaguely aware that his hands are shaking, and his knees feel a little weak, and his vision is starting to blur.

He feels frozen with horror.

  
  


Because...he’s being made fun of, right? He has to be. Mystery Scribbler is making fun of him. 

It couldn’t possibly be  _ genuine compliment _ . It couldn’t be.

  
  


Not from somebody who draws faces that look like  _ that _ . Not from somebody with such high standards that faces that look like  _ that _ aren’t  _ good enough. _

  
  


Maybe Evan will find photocopies of his drawings taped all over the hall after all.

  
  


He swallows hard. 

Snaps his book shut. 

Opens it again, cautiously.

  
  


_ I like your drawings. _

  
  


Evan’s mind is racing; logic at war with panic, and he stares down at the message, each letter dug forcefully into the page.

  
  


And yeah, OK. 

  
  


It  _ could  _ be sarcastic. Malicious. Cruel.

  
  


But…

  
  


But if someone was out to get him, why did they leave all of Evan's drawings in perfect condition? Why didn't they like...draw dicks on everything, or rip the pages out, or whatever? 

And surely...surely if Mystery Scribbler was going to expose Evan's art to the entire school, they would've done it already? It's been days, after all.

  
  


Evan brushes his fingertips over each word, as though the motion will make them reveal some secret.

  
  


And it doesn't. 

But it's only then that Evan notices something else on the page. And on the one beside it.

  
  


Mystery Scribbler has left Evan a clue.

Not intentionally, most likely.

But something else has been written, and then taken back. 

Multiple times.

  
  


Mystery Scribbler erases just as hard as they scribble. It's hard to make out the ghosts of the letters that once were. Evan tries. He holds the book at various angles under the art room's fluorescent light, brings it right up to his nose, flips the page over to try and read the backwards indents on the opposite side, to no avail.   
  


They've scratched a lot out, too. So Evan can only make out traces. Scraps.

He sees the word 'sorry', hidden beneath the scrawl.

Something about that makes his chest ache. The word 'sorry' is a staple in Evan's vocabulary. He knows all too well what it's like to be sorry.

Evan spends most of his waking hours in a perpetual state of 'sorry'.

  
  


But there's more.

_ I'm _

Followed by what was once a name.

It's gone, now.

All that remains is the barest hint of a double N, sort of near the middle, peaking out.

Which could be... anything, really. 

Evan frowns. 

His heart is still racing.  
  


He's mentally checking off “double N in the middle” names in his head, going through every senior he can think of, until he realizes he’s not even sure if Mystery Scribbler  _ is _ a senior. 

It could be anyone.

  
  


Evan looks over the only message left behind. Just one more time.

  
  


_ I like your drawings. _

  
  


And he pretends it’s genuine. And he thinks about what he’d say back.

  
  


And almost on autopilot, Evan finds himself rummaging around in his backpack, and his pencil is poised between his fingers before he even has a chance to process what the hell he’s about to do. 

  
  


What the  _ hell  _ is he about to  _ do? _

  
  


He’s only just gotten his book back. After days of panicking about it. All his trees and flowers and mushrooms and bugs, restored.

  
  


And he’s actually thinking of intentionally leaving the book behind? For what purpose?

  
  


Evan stands, hovering over the open sketchbook, head spinning.

  
  


What is  _ wrong  _ with him? 

  
  


Is he truly that lonely and desperate that he’s willing to abandon his notebook just to write back to some stranger who may or may not just be taking the shit out of him?

  
  


Evan thinks about his empty bedroom and his empty email inbox. 

And his empty weekends. 

And his empty life.

  
  


And he decides yes. Yes, he is.

  
  


Evan presses the tip of his pencil to page, just lightly. Right below the word  _ drawings. _

  
  


He considers his options. Reconsiders. Obsesses. Considers again.

  
  


_ Thank you  _ Evan writes.

  
  


Then, before he loses his nerve:

  
  


_ I like yours, too.  _

  
  


He sets the book back down on the desk. 

  
  


Stuffs his pencil case back into his bag.

  
  


Takes a deep breath.

  
  


And when he walks away, he forces himself not to look back. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe they just haven’t found it yet. 
> 
> Maybe they aren’t even looking for it, haven’t even noticed it’s gone, and this creepy little hopeful fantasy Connor’s perpetuating in his mind is all just for nothing. It isn’t even real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiiiii i don't like this chapter that much BUT we moving along guys gals and nonbinary pals
> 
> come talk to us! c-e-c-r-o-p-i-a and theyellowestmustard on tumblr :-)

Maybe they just haven’t found it yet. 

Maybe they aren’t even looking for it, haven’t even noticed it’s gone, and this creepy little hopeful fantasy Connor’s perpetuating in his mind is all just for nothing. It isn’t even real. 

It’s sitting right where he left it. Like, exactly where he left it. It hasn’t moved. 

So maybe this mysterious sketchbook owner just doesn’t give a shit about their own property and chalked it up to a loss already. Because like, it’s been a couple of days, right? They should’ve found it by now. 

Unless they don’t even take art classes, Connor. Way to assume. 

But why  _ wouldn’t _ they with this fucking insane talent that Connor could never even dream of having? And if they don’t take art classes and they haven’t even bothered to look in the art room for something that’s literally the definition of an art supply, then. 

They must not care enough, so. 

Connor could technically just take it, right?

Like. No one’s looking for it, obviously. He could just take it. 

It does more good for him than for its original owner, probably, even if he doesn’t want to admit that to himself. He’s been thinking about it every day. That little reminder in the corner, the person who draws so beautifully, who understands him. A part of him doesn’t feel like he can rest until he finds out who it could be. 

He takes it anyway. 

… 

“Hey, um…” He sidles up to his teacher’s desk after class, avoiding her eyes and gripping the book tightly in his hands, arms pressed to his sides. 

“Hey, Connor!” She says brightly, hands on her hips. “How’s the project going? Are you liking it?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m… it’s good. But I was wondering if you’ve… ever seen somebody carrying this around?” He holds it out just enough for her to see it, but not enough for her to reach out and take it. 

“Hmmm…” She leans close, pushing up her glasses. “I have not. Did someone lose it?”

“Yeah, I, uh… found it. When I came into class, so.”

Her eyebrows pull together. “I can keep it here and ask my next class if you’d like.”

Connor tucks the book into his folded arms. “Oh, that’s… thanks, but… no. I can just put it in the lost and found.”

She looks mildly surprised. “Oh. Alright.”

“I just don’t want you to have to go out of your way,” Connor says with practiced charm. “I’m passing by anyway, so.”

He’s met with a blinding grin. “That’s sweet of you. Thank you.” She turns around and grabs a pile of papers off the back of her messy desk. “See, this is why you’re my favorite student.”

Connor almost grins. “You said that exact same thing to Clarissa, like, half an hour ago.”

She turns around briefly, winking. “Here’s my secret: you’re all my favorite.”

Connor rolls his eyes, forever grateful that she’s the kind of teacher that doesn’t take that as an insult to her authority. “See you tomorrow.”

“Have a good night!” She calls over her shoulder, already making quick work of attempting to organize her desk. 

Alright, so. Obviously this person’s never stepped into the art room, that much he knows. But that doesn’t really narrow down his suspect pool by too much, really, he doesn’t have the slightest idea what this person could look like or what classes they take, but. 

They probably don’t think they’re good at drawing. Either that or they just don’t care enough to join an art class, but if Connor was able to draw this well he’d be exploiting it for all it’s worth. 

They like nature, that’s for sure. That’s all they draw. Or maybe that’s all they know how to draw. Connor could probably find the list of everyone in the environmental protection club, but that involves having more awkward conversations but with teachers he’s never talked to, which is out of the question. 

But if this person is so shy about their interests that they aren’t in an art class, and probably aren’t even in art club, either, then why would they be in  _ any _ club?

How the hell is Connor supposed to even  _ find _ them?

…

He’s been debating it all day. 

The only other person who’s been in Connor’s high school that he’s slightly on speaking terms with barely even talks to him other than screaming at him to turn his music down or telling him he’s a fuck up, so. 

But, like. Zoe’s kind of also a socialite. She’d probably know whose it is. Or she’s at least probably seen it before and can point Connor toward the right kind of person. 

Or she’ll just scream in his face for him to go away. 

So that’s out. 

Except. 

He could always, like. Test the waters. 

He could have the book out at dinner. Or he could ask her a stupid question and carry the book with him, to see if she recognizes it. 

But then he runs the risk of his parents seeing it. 

Would his parents even care?

He could also, like. Try just asking about it. Being direct and stuff. 

But when Zoe gets home after band practice he hears her car screech into the driveway, and she slams the front door and she slams the door to her room, so. 

The book is laying flat on his pillow. He feels like he’s turned all of the pages multiple times, ran his fingers over the splotches of pen ink where it’s smeared and the little indents where this mystery person has pressed into the page to increase the line thickness. 

He’s got his favorites. There’s a cartoonish drawing of a very fluffy squirrel that he enjoys quite a lot, and a couple pages down there’s a realistic study of a frog— or a toad?— that he spends too much time looking at. And there’s this beautiful marker drawing of a birch tree with peeling bark, Connor’s favorite of his favorites. 

It must have been drawn on a day when they were feeling colorful, because this is the only one with bright, vibrant color. 

Connor’s spent hours thinking about this person sitting down and drawing these, maybe at a park or sitting outside in their backyard or something. Maybe they’re enjoying the breeze on their skin or the smell of the evening air. 

He flips the next couple of pages with an accidental smile on his face, and then. 

An addition, it seems. 

  
  


_ Thank you. I like yours too.  _

  
  


His smile drops. Someone’s fucking with him. 

His sister must have found it, or someone at school, writing back to him to get his hopes up because god knows Connor’s the easiest target for these assholes, he just gets so  _ angry _ all the time and he can’t keep it in. Someone wrote this so he would find it, right? So he’d open himself up only to be stabbed in the back, right?

But, then. His eyes catch on the ‘l’ in  _ like _ , looping around like the person who wrote this was too lazy to lift their pencil off the page. And the o’s in  _ too _ are so perfectly round like someone took their time writing this. Maybe the loopy ‘l’ is just a handwriting quirk, like this person has been writing like this for so long that it’s stuck. 

It’s incredibly endearing. 

He finds that page with the dog-eared corner, flipping back and forth between the two. And Connor’s not a handwriting analyst or anything, but. They’re fucking similar. 

But he’s still skeptical. Some asshole could’ve copied the handwriting from the other page, just to make it more believable—

Which would take a lot of time and more effort than anyone who just wants to fuck with him would put in, and everything is spelled correctly, so. It must be  _ them _ . 

The mysterious  _ them _ has decided to reach out. 

  
  


_ I like yours too.  _

  
  


He reads it and reads it again, trying so hard to believe the words written on the page right under his own but he just can’t. And he wants to write  _ yeah right  _ or  _ yours are better _ or something equally as self-deprecating, but. He’d like to put his best foot forward. 

He fishes his pencil out of his bag, hurrying to scribble something back. 

And just because he’s paranoid, he writes:

  
  


_ Just to be sure I’m not being fucked with, leave this on top of the senior lockers next time so I know this is your book. _

  
  


He thinks for a second, tapping the pencil on his lips. 

  
  


_ And tell me your best corny nature joke. _

  
  


He doesn’t erase it this time.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Evan were to write a list of things that could potentially send him into an anxiety-induced tailspin, he’s pretty sure he could fill several little leather-bound sketchbooks cover to cover.
> 
> But this.
> 
> This takes the cake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> I am SO sorry this took so long! My world has been chaotic lately. I really appreciate your patience (as well as cecropia's patience!). Hopefully the Evan chapters won't be quite so delayed from here on out! :))
> 
> No TW that I can think of but as always, if you spot something I've missed please let me know and I'll be sure to tag it. 
> 
> come talk to us! c-e-c-r-o-p-i-a and theyellowestmustard on tumblr :-)

* * *

If Evan were to write a list of things that could potentially send him into an anxiety-induced tailspin, he’s pretty sure he could fill several little leather-bound sketchbooks cover to cover.

Oral presentations. 

Seeing teachers out in public. 

Trying to order food without having time to rehearse in your head first. 

That time the girl at the drugstore register had said, "hello" and Evan had replied with, "good thanks" and then he could never go back to that particular drugstore ever again.

But this.

This takes the cake.

A joke.

Mystery Scribbler wants him to tell a  _ joke _ .

The reason this is a problem is that Evan isn't funny. Not really. His brain sometimes supplies him with things that he  _ thinks _ are funny, sure. Little jibes and puns and stuff. But by the time Evan processes, reframes, rewords, second guesses, rewords again...the moment has invariably passed. 

Evan doesn't know how to be funny.

And if he  _ does  _ think of something funny, what if Mystery Scribbler doesn't think it's funny?

Granted, they  _ did _ specifically request a corny joke. Maybe they're not expecting it to be funny? 

The word ‘funny’ is beginning to lose meaning. It’s just letters; just discombobulated sounds bobbing around in Evan’s dumb, unfunny brain. 

Evan drops his head into his hands with a frustrated groan.

He could just…Google something. Trawl around on Reddit for awhile. Surely  _ someone _ online has something that fits the bill. Corny, nature-related, a bit funny but not too funny. Nothing that makes it look like Evan's trying too hard. His phone is right there in his pocket. A few taps, and this nightmare could be all over.

But he can't. He can't do it.

It feels like cheating, somehow.

Evan doesn't want to cheat. He wants to do right by Mystery Scribbler. 

Mystery Scribbler, who draws faces and makes demands, stained with paranoia and distrust. Who tears through paper in a book that isn't theirs, cutting through it like butter. Who presses too hard, digging each letter and line into the book until the ghosts are left behind on the pages that follow, embossed one, two, three sheets on.

Mystery Scribbler, who actually made an effort to ensure Evan would find his book again.

That was the part that...kind of had Evan reeling, honestly. 

Evan had checked the art room after a couple of days, despite the fact he was itching to go back and look not even an hour after walking away.  _ Give them a chance, idiot,  _ he'd told himself. 

_ This is a new level of desperate,  _ he'd said.

_ This is pathetic. _

Two days later, there was a message; a post-it note in the exact spot where he'd left the book, waiting just for him. Each word stabbed hard into the paper.

_ Lost & found - didn't want someone else to pick it up or whatever. _

And when Evan checked Lost & Found, sure enough, there it was. 

His book.

_ Their _ book?

Maybe. 

Evan's probably getting a little ahead of himself.

But...is he overanalyzing, or does it seem like this random stranger...actually gives a shit? Gives a shit about  _ Evan _ ? Like. They went out of their way to make sure the book didn't fall into the wrong hands, right? And they left a breadcrumb trail to help Evan get it back. That takes a certain amount of consideration and care, doesn't it? 

Evan is...almost  _ definitely _ overanalyzing.

He reminds himself, not for the first time, that Mystery Scribbler  _ doesn't know him. _

They don’t  _ care _ about him. Why would they?

Why would  _ anyone? _

And like. The evidence is pretty clear. Surely if they'd wanted to know Evan’s name, they would’ve  _ asked.  _ A simple ‘what’s your name?’ or ‘who is this?’ or something. Or they would’ve revealed their  _ own _ name, if they actually wanted him to know it, right? If they wanted...any sort of actual connection with him at all?

Evan considers just... _ doing _ it. Putting himself out there. His pencil is poised on the paper, ready. ‘I’m Evan’. That’s all he’d need to write. 

He doesn’t. He  _ can’t. _

Because he knows, he  _ knows  _ that this is completely fucking  _ pitiful _ , this weird bond he feels with a voiceless, nameless stranger. It’s  _ insane. _

And as insane as it is, the last thing Evan wants to do is scare said stranger off.

He lets out a heavy sigh, and flips back through the book for the millionth time, furtively, even though he's sitting alone and he doubts anyone in the hubbub of the cafeteria is paying him any mind. He looks back over his own drawings, and the scratched-out faces, and the torn page he's carefully taped back together again.

He spends a long time looking over the page with the squirrel on it.

He'd noticed, hours ago, that the page seems... considerably more dog-eared than he'd remembered it being. And pencil is just a little smeared; like it's been touched a few too many times.

Like someone has gone back to look at it, over and over again.

Evan's brain full of shit. He's making things up. The page was probably always like that.

But maybe drawing something will wake his brain up. Help him come up with the requested "corny nature joke".

And...and on the off chance this is one of Mystery Scribbler's favorites…

Another squirrel begins to take form. 

Bright, shiny eyes. A full, fluffy tail. A teeny, tiny nose, which Evan spends too much time on, getting the details _just_ _right. _

He does have an audience now, after all.

He works hard on the expression; mischievous and cheeky, with just a hint of cartoon goofiness, like he's thinking--

"OK, this might be the gayest shit I've ever seen in my life."

Evan's heart leaps into his throat, and he rushes to slam the sketchbook shut, but it's too late. Jared's leering over his shoulder, staring directly at Evan's pencil sketch with a shit-eating grin.

"Squirrels. You're drawing  _ squirrels." _

Evan feels his face heat in mortification.

"What's wrong with squirrels?" Evan mutters, trying hard not to sound too defensive because he  _ knows _ if he sounds like he cares too much Jared will use it as an opportunity to mock him even more than usual.

"I mean. Skittish. A certain... _ fondness  _ for nuts. It's practically a self portrait."

Evan's brain offers him a scathing retort. Something about squirrels being more like Jared; buck teeth and probably riddled with diseases. Or something. But, as usual, by the time he rewords, second guesses, rewords again, the moment has passed, and Jared's dumping his lunch tray on Evan’s empty table and sitting down and going on about some girl in his Chem class, and how she was  _ absolutely  _ checking him out during third period, and he's knows she's just broken up with her boyfriend but Jared has no problem with sloppy seconds. 

Evan tries hard not to visibly cringe. Jared’s just... _ awful _ , sometimes. Most of the time. 

But, weirdly enough, it kind of sparks an idea in Evan's head.

Because Jared knows a lot of people. One of the perks of being overly confident and also not really fitting into any specific clique, Evan supposes. 

If anyone knows anything about Mystery Scribbler, it'll be Jared.

"Hey," Evan says abruptly, interrupting Jared's god-awful rant about 'Chem Hottie' with uncharacteristic impatience. "You haven't seen anyone drawing in this book, have you?" 

He flips the book shut so Jared can see the front cover, tilting it towards him without relinquishing his hold on it. 

The last thing he needs is for Jared to start flicking through it.

Jared barely glances at the book.

"Except you, Vincent van Cock? Nah. Misunderstood gay artists aren't really my scene." 

"Then," Evan presses on, determinedly, pulling the book back towards him and opening up to the page with the scrawled-out name, "do you know anyone with a double N in their name? Someone who does art?"

Jared's eyes narrow suspiciously.

"Why?" he asks.

Shit. 

It’s a fair question, and also one that Evan doesn’t really have an answer to. 

_ Why?  _ Why is this so _ important  _ to him?

_ Planned ignore,  _ Evan’s brain instructs.  _ Don’t take the bait.  _

“There’s that guy in our grade who wants to be an art teacher, right? Is his name Bennett?”

“Nah, Ben’s short for Benjamin,” Jared says, and Evan lets out a quiet sigh of relief that he’s managed to get away with not answering Jared’s question.

Evan squints down at the scrawl, the barely-there double N lost in the void. 

“Lennox? Or like...Hannah?” Evan tries, and Jared’s eyebrows pull together thoughtfully. 

“Hannah Delaney? Dunno why you’d be interested in her, she’s a bitch.”

And. Not that Evan really trusts Jared’s judgement of people,  _ particularly _ girls, but…

But in this case, Jared’s not entirely wrong.

Probably not Hannah Delaney, then.

_ Hopefully _ not, anyway.

“Flynn’s good at art. And I think Caitlynn? Double-D Caitlynn? ” Jared offers, but Evan shakes his head. And wishes he had the guts to tell Jared not to say shit like that. 

“It has to be in the middle. The N’s, I mean,” he explains, casting his eyes back down thoughtfully.

And Evan really needs to think before he acts, because suddenly Jared’s eyes are following the same path down to the book, with this glint of sly interest, and--

Evan manages to yank the book back  _ just  _ as Jared makes a grab for it, pulling it out of his reach.

Jared gives a huff of annoyance.

“What the fuck are you  _ hiding  _ in there?” Jared demands. “Besides your squirrel furry kink shit, I mean. What’s this ‘double N’ thing all about?”

“It’s  nothing ,” Evan insists, probably too forceful to be convincing. “It’s just. I’m just...trying to return something. To someone. And I can’t make out the name except the N’s, that’s all.”

Evan holds his breath while he waits to see if Jared’s buying it.

Jared takes a massive bite of floppy, undercooked pizza.

“Beats me,” he says, with a bored-looking shrug. “If it’s not worth anything, just toss it out. Who fucking cares?”

“Yeah,” says Evan, with a weak laugh. “Yeah, you’re...you’re probably right.”

Jared seems satisfied with this answer, because he’s back to drawling on about ‘Chem Hottie’. Evan makes vague noises of interest at the appropriate times (he thinks), picking absently at his pizza, the noise of the cafeteria dulling to a droning hum all around him.

It's not long before his attention is drawn back to the book; to the fluffy squirrel with his puff-ball tail. Evan surreptitiously shields the book from Jared’s view with one arm as he shades and blends, adding a few extra strokes and details, tilting his head back every now and again to give it a once-over. 

He forces himself to stop messing with it, in the end. It's finished; it looks complete, but Evan can't help but keep tweaking, keep making pedantic little adjustments until it's _exactly_ _right_.

He tells himself he's always like this. He's always been finicky with his drawings. 

But part of him knows it's amplified, now. 

Because he cares what a certain somebody thinks.

He looks it over. 

And it's only then, looking at the beady eyes and playful expression that it comes to him; from some far-off corner of his brain. Something retained from some shitty, long-forgotten joke book from his childhood.

_ What does a squirrel and a cigarette have in common? _

_ They’re both safe until you light them on fire and put them in your mouth. _

It's crude.

It's awful.

It's... _ stupid. _

But it had made ten-year-old Evan laugh, once. Laugh hard enough that almost eight years on he still remembers the joke.

And honestly it...kind of makes nearly-eighteen-year-old Evan laugh, too. A little.

He second guesses himself, of course. Because that's what Evan does. He doesn't know how to... _ not  _ do that.

_ It's not funny. _

_ It's not corny enough. _

_ Does it even  _ _ count _ _ as nature-related?  _

_ God, what if Mystery Scribbler is a real animal lover and finds it like...super offensive, or something? Like...Evan loves animals, and  _ _ he  _ _ finds it funny, but what if that's just because Evan is, as he's always suspected, a Bad Person? What if Evan's  _ _ awful  _ _ for finding it funny?  _

Evan takes a deep breath.

Counts to ten.

Lets it out.

He writes down the joke.

And then, for good measure, adds a big speech bubble around it. So it looks like the squirrel is telling it.

He knows it doesn't make a whole lot of sense. Why would a squirrel be telling a joke about setting other squirrels on fire? 

Whatever. Too late now. The speech bubble is already there. And it wouldn't make much difference if he tried to erase it, because Evan's pressed too hard. 

Which...never  _ used _ to be a habit of his.

He gives the page a long, contemplative look.

It's not quite enough. Not yet. He wants to like, keep the lines of communication open, or whatever. To keep this enigmatic stranger's interest; to give them a reason to write back. 

Evan thinks.

Then quickly realizes that the longer he thinks about it, the less likely he is to write anything at all.

So he just... _ writes. _

_ Sorry about the joke. It's really bad.  _

Then:

_ Could I maybe request some more art in exchange for it? I know the joke is shitty so it's barely worth a stick figure. But your art is really beautiful. I'd love to see more.  _

Finally:

_ If you want. No pressure.  _

It's the most either of them have ever written to each other, Evan realizes, as he scans over the message, double-checking his spelling. His punctuation.

He doesn't want to come across as an idiot, after all.

Jared, being Jared, cranes his neck to peer at the book, still hidden protectively behind Evan’s arm. Apparently, his eyes latch onto the word ‘beautiful’, because suddenly he’s waggling his eyebrows suggestively and giving Evan this fucking smug look that...kind of makes Evan want to punch him in the face, to be honest.

“Jesus.  _ Christ.” _

“What?” 

_ Too defensive,  _ Evan tells himself, too late.

“Most people use like, Tinder for this shit, y’know? Or like. Grindr. I could install the app for you.”

Evan’s face goes hot.

“I don’t know what you’re--”

“C’mon, gaylord. First you’re searching for a mysterious nameless artist and drawing Disney bullshit and now you’re, what, writing  _ love letters?  _ I dunno what’s going on, but if you’re trying to hook up with someone, you’re--”

“It’s not a  _ love letter,  _ oh my  _ god,” _ Evan protests. “It’s just....it’s...it’s none of your business what it is, actually.”

Of course it’s not a love letter.

Evan doesn’t even know he’s  _ writing to.  _ And they’ve only exchanged like, two sentences.

It isn’t a love letter. It’s like. An admiration letter. Or something.

Evan snaps the book shut and heads in the direction of the senior lockers, leaving Jared alone with his pizza and his lewd thoughts of ‘Chem Hottie’.

The sooner he leaves the book behind, the sooner he can get it back again, with a new message from an artist whose name he doesn’t know.

He  _ hopes _ there’s a new message, anyway.

Evan shuffles down the hall, as he considers that thought, turning it over and over in his head.

Hope. 

That’s new.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Alright, Murph, how about this—” Connor briefly considers kicking Jared in the shin at the nickname— “I’ll pay you, like… ten bucks, and you do both of our parts to this whole project thingy. But don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone if you won’t. C’mon, man. Help a dude out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI THIS FIC ISN'T DEAD LOL I'M SORRY @ EVERYONE AND ALSO YELLOWMUSTARD ILY GUYS BYE
> 
> come talk to us! c-e-c-r-o-p-i-a and theyellowestmustard on tumblr :-)

Connor can officially say that he’s not being fucked with. 

Probably. 

Unless this is all one big elaborate scheme to make Connor look like an idiot, this person’s not fucking with him. 

And, he realizes as an empty pit settles in his stomach, no one would even care enough to go this far just to make a fool out of him. The people at his school are more about short, fucked-up methods to make Connor feel like a piece of shit, like name-calling and tripping him and leaving threatening notes in his locker. So.

Either way, when Connor fishes the book out of his bag just to look through it once again, to stand there and flip through the pages and imagine what it would be like to have someone like this be friends with someone like  _ him _ , it’s so unintentionally creepy that it makes him stop for a second and question what the fuck he’s even doing.

And it also seems to make him forget that he’s, like. Currently in front of someone else’s locker. 

Someone clears their throat.

“Um. Move?” 

He rolls his eyes and huffs a short, “ _ fuck off _ ,” as he takes his time pushing off of the locker, shoving the book in his sweatshirt pocket, and heading off. 

The girl, some popular girl on the volleyball team named Hannah (who used to hang out with his sister but then decided she was too good for her at the beginning of high school— the bitch), yells something at him, something along the lines of ‘ _ excuse me? _ ’ but Connor’s not listening. 

He’s good at that. Blocking stuff out. 

But then there are times when all he does is listen. 

When all he does is deliberately listen to what people say about him. He sits at his door and listens to his parents arguing about him, or lingers behind, just around the corner, when he overhears his name. It’s like he’s drawn to the negativity of it all; like if he hears more of what he wants to hear then it makes it a little bit more real. It confirms what he’s always believed about himself. 

Driven by the fact that freedom is at his fingertips, Connor doesn’t choose to listen today. All he wants is to get in his car and drive, drive until he doesn’t recognize where he is anymore, and he wants to find a cozy spot, preferably in the shade, and he wants to just  _ sit _ there. 

He wants to be able to pretend like the world is at peace, just this once. 

It’s a decent day. Not too sunny, not too dreary. He could get away with it. 

Connor waits until the bell rings, of course. He’s not stupid. He waits until everyone’s gone, waits until class starts, and then he just. Walks out. 

Maybe he can take a nap. He’s always so fucking tired. 

Every single time he skips out like this, he always expects to get caught, strangely enough. He’s never been caught, not once. But it seems like something that should happen, right? In an ideal world? Shouldn’t schools be watching their students more carefully?

And, like… doesn’t his school have video cameras? 

It’s not like his school is poor. It’s small, but football makes enough money that they should be able to afford cameras. Why is it that no one notices when he leaves?

Maybe they notice, but they just... don’t care. 

Fitting.

When Connor reaches the car, he yanks the door open and just sits in the driver’s seat for a second. 

Zoe’s gonna be pissed that he’s taking the car again. He knows that. But he’s got the only thing worth existing for right now in his pocket and he’s not going to let his shitty sister or their shitty school or his shitty parents or Hannah fucking Delaney ruin this for him. 

It’s sort of routine, now. Some loser like him, some nobody, will scribble pictures and drawings into this stupid little book, and Connor will respond. It’s like… penpals, almost. 

Except Connor hasn’t written his penpal in over a week. 

And he’s got no idea who his penpal even is. 

And... it’s nothing like penpals at all, actually.

Here’s the thing: It’s not that he doesn’t  _ want _ to write back, it’s just…

He’s kind of afraid to fuck it up.

Connor eventually starts up the car and rolls the window down, pulling a cigarette out of the sunglasses holder where he stashes them and watches in the driver’s side mirror as smoke trails in a cloud behind him. It disappears as he drives off, and again, he’s left wondering why no one notices him. 

Maybe the smoking is some metaphor for drifting away; disappearing, or something. Connor doesn’t know. 

As he cranks the music up all the way, flipping through the channels until he finds something decent, he does exactly what he set out to do: 

He drives. 

The one thing he  _ doesn’t _ do is something that he never does, that he never has the guts to do, and that’s leaving town. He’s just… never been able to do it. 

He doesn’t know why he stays on familiar roads. It’s not like anything’s tying him to this place. But still, he stays on roads he knows he’s seen before, and eventually he ends up in some parking lot of an old, run-down grocery store from the 60s. 

Connor flicks the side of his cigarette against the open window, taking one last drag before he tosses it out the window. And vaguely, for just a moment, he feels kind of… guilty, weirdly. 

It’s not like he knows the person on the other side of the book. It’s not like they’ve had a real, true conversation. But Connor kind of feels like he’s letting that person down as he pulls out the little book, because pretty much all they draw is nature, and so they’ve got to be some kind of environmental activist, right? And here’s Connor, filling the ozone layer with holes and polluting the wildlife, or some shit. 

Connor’s never really looked into that, truthfully. The harm he’s causing the planet.

But he scoots down further into the seat and locks the doors, finally letting himself relax. The nicotine has calmed that angry buzz under his skin just a little, and he’s got the window cracked so the cool breeze is coming through, and he props the little book up against the steering wheel and just. Looks. 

Memorizes the pages, almost. He’s flipped through it so many times that he can almost always guess what’s coming next. And since he’s well and truly alone, he lets himself smile just a little when he gets to his favorite page. 

He’s cycled through a lot of favorites, honestly, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever get over that stupid fucking squirrel joke that the book’s owner had written in it a couple of weeks ago. It’s fucking hilarious, for one thing, but along with that, it holds this weird significance to him. It’s the first time that this fellow loner had written anything of substance to Connor. The first time that this mysterious person had actually reached out in any sort of way. 

It makes Connor feel weirdly shaky when he thinks about it for too long.

Not in a bad way, though. 

Which is weird. 

But not bad-weird. 

Connor fishes a pencil out of his bag, all chewed up at the end and almost sharpened completely, all the way to that metal bit before the eraser. 

His art teacher likes to tell him to always search for ways to improve. To practice drawing things he doesn’t usually draw. 

He always rolls his eyes. 

But maybe he could do that. He’s feeling weirdly optimistic today, so. He can try it, at least. 

And if he fucks it up, he can just rip the page out. So his penpal of sorts doesn’t see how much of a fuck-up he can be. And if he doesn’t fuck it up, he can leave it and finally give this person something to work with. 

As much as he’s worried about ruining this whole thing they’ve got going on, he also just… misses getting their replies. Talking to them. Having someone to relate to. 

So he hunches over and gets to work. 

… 

“Where’ve you been all day, huh, Murphy?” Kleinman asks him as Connor steps up to his porch, something he honestly had never imagined himself doing. 

Something he never wants to do again, really. Ever.

“Out smoking that good kush?”

Connor stands there on the steps, wondering if he should bother coming in. If he would even be there that long. Why Jared wouldn’t just  _ text _ him and tell him what he had to say. 

If all of this is some sick trap. 

When Connor makes eye contact, Jared looks at him like he’s crazy.

“Yup,” Connor says, deadpan, right as he remembers that he hasn’t replied yet.  _ Totally _ , he adds in his mind.

Jared smiles. It’s extremely off-putting. “Thought you might say that.”

Connor doesn’t bother replying. 

“Alright, Murph, how about this—” Connor briefly considers kicking Jared in the shin at the nickname— “I’ll pay you, like… ten bucks, and you do both of our parts to this whole project thingy. But don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone if you won’t. C’mon, man. Help a dude out.”

Jared raises his eyebrows at him, gives him a toothy grin. 

Like Connor’s an  _ idiot _ . 

God, he needs a cigarette. 

“Why?” Connor asks him, measured, clenching his fists at his sides. 

Jared’s face falls, but he recovers quickly. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Why  _ what _ ?”

“Why should I help  _ you _ ?”

Jared sighs. Connor guesses it’s just for show. “‘Cause I’m offering you ten bucks, that’s why. I’ll even pay you up front. Or, what, is that not enough to buy cocaine with, or something? Should I up it to fifteen?”

Connor bites into the side of his cheek so hard he tastes blood.

He takes in a careful breath.

“You’re seriously fucking asking me to—”

“ _ Ugh _ , one sec, Colton. BRB.” Jared turns around and digs into his pocket, slamming the door in Connor’s face.

He should just leave. 

And, like. Never come back. Never come back to this town, or this state, or maybe even this country. He could probably sneak into Larry’s office and find his passport somewhere, if he remembers how to pick a lock correctly.

“Again, why are you calling  _ me _ about this?”

Who would’ve known. Jared Kleinman is so fucking loud that he can be heard through walls. Big surprise. Just the sound of his slow drawl is enough to make Connor’s blood boil, and he takes another measured breath as he waits there. 

He should leave.

But, like. If Jared has to step inside of his house to take a phone call then it must be worth eavesdropping on.

“I told you, Evan, I haven’t seen that fuckin’ book anywhere.” A pause. “Not since you had it, like, last week. I  _ told _ you that.” Another pause. “ _ Yes _ , I checked in the lost and found.” Another. “ _ Yeah _ , I’ll tell you. Christ. Now will you stop bugging me about it? I’m trying to hang out with my  _ real _ friends right now.” 

Connor almost snorts. 

Almost. 

As Jared hangs up the phone and sighs, and as Connor replays the conversation in his head, everything starts to fall into place.

_Evan_. There’s an Evan, who’s looking for a book. An Evan, who’s lost a book, and who’s asking for help in finding said book. Who hasn’t seen said book in a week. 

Jared’s front door swings open. 

_ Evan _ . Does Connor know an  _ Evan _ ?

Jared leans against the doorframe.“Alright, Cory, final offer. Twenty bucks. Take it or leave it.”

_ Not even close _ , Connor thinks. 

“Deal,” Connor spits out before he can think about it, but just as Jared’s pulling out his wallet— “I have conditions.”

Jared stops, looks at Connor over the top of his glasses. “Of course you do,” Jared rolls his eyes, picking a twenty out of his wallet. “Whaddaya got?”

Connor holds up a finger. “One: don’t ever call me  _ Murph _ again.”

Jared purses his lips, narrows his eyes. “I can do that.”

“Two,” Connor says, holding up a second finger, “Stay the fuck out of my way at school.”

“Easy enough,” Jared sneers. “You don’t exactly invite the best company, now, do you?”

Connor has a lot of ways he could reply to that, but he presses on, taking one last deep breath. 

“Three,” He says, holding up a third finger. “Tell me about Evan.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has been a bad twelve days for Evan’s resting heart rate.
> 
> Evan knows this because of his mom, who once told him that a healthy number of beats per minute is between 60 - 100, but generally speaking the lower, the better. You can test your resting heart rate by finding your pulse, usually easier to detect in the wrist, and counting how many beats there are in fifteen seconds, and then multiplying that number by four.
> 
> Evan has been testing his own heart rate obsessively for twelve days, and every single time it’s been hovering around the nineties.
> 
> Which, okay. Is still in the healthy range. Technically. 
> 
> But it’s not exactly ideal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two fics? In *my* fifth of January? It's more likely than you think.
> 
> No real TW that spring to mind. Evan is anxious but y'know. That's kinda. His whole deal :P
> 
> Come talk to us! c-e-c-r-o-p-i-a & theyellowestmustard on tumblr :-)  


* * *

It has been a bad twelve days for Evan’s resting heart rate.

Evan knows this because of his mom, who once told him that a healthy number of beats per minute is between 60 - 100, but generally speaking the lower, the better. You can test your resting heart rate by finding your pulse, usually easier to detect in the wrist, and counting how many beats there are in fifteen seconds, and then multiplying that number by four.

Evan has been testing his own heart rate obsessively for twelve days, and every single time it’s been hovering around the nineties.

Which, okay.  _ Is _ still in the healthy range. Technically. 

But it’s not exactly ideal.

Evan has only recently become preoccupied with his heart rate, upon becoming acutely aware of the near constant anxiety-flutter in his chest; of the feeling of cold, empty weight pressing down on him, pushing him into the ground, forcing the air from his lungs. 

He wonders for a while if he’s got, like...some sort of disorder. An arrhythmia, or whatever.

Honestly, some sort of medical condition almost sounds good to Evan right now. A terminal one, preferably.

But he knows it’s not. For once, his frantic brain does  _ not  _ ferry him off to Web MD and convince him that he’s got cancer, or SARS, or Mad Cow disease, or whatever the fuck else Web MD diagnoses when you’ve got a case of the sniffles.

It’s just. It’s been a  _ week.  _

A long, uneasy, stressful, positively  _ baffling  _ week. And five days. 

And it doesn’t show any signs of letting up.

It started with The Sudden And Unexplained Disappearance Of Mystery Scribbler.

Which...is stupid. Stupid of Evan. To even think that way. Because it had only been, like, ten days, counting the weekend, since Evan had left the book at the senior lockers, with his awful squirrel joke and his weird, slimy pleading for a response, for more art, for  _ anything _ , any form of contact ‘Double-N’ is willing to give him. 

Ten days is practically nothing. Mystery Scribbler is allowed to have a  _ life.  _ Mystery Scribbler probably  _ does  _ have a life; probably has friends and hobbies and parties to go to. Probably frequents concerts and takes long drives and plays a musical instrument. 

Probably has a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Or a joyfriend. 

Or like...a cat.

Probably Evan is just a fun little way to pass the time. Between all of their actual, real-life commitments.

They don’t owe Evan anything.

And Evan needs to stop acting like they do.

So he gets mad, mad at  _ himself _ , for worrying so much, for wondering what’s happened to them, for regretting every single word of that fucking terrible squirrel joke, for biting his fingernails down to nubs. He gets mad at his own resting heart rate, which climbs and climbs and climbs.

And by the time the book finally makes a reappearance, Evan’s feeling disheveled and frail, limp like a wet noodle, and not unlike he’s been hit by a truck.

He literally deflates in relief upon seeing it there, balanced on top of the senior lockers, sticking out a bit so Evan’s sure to catch sight of it. 

Strangely enough, Mystery Scribbler has managed to place it almost  _ exactly  _ on top of Evan’s own locker, which is such a wild coincidence that Evan has to fight back a little burst of surprised laughter as he snatches the book down in the crowded hallway. 

Of  _ all  _ the fucking lockers. Just. What are the odds?

He mutters something unintelligible to Jared in passing; a courtesy, more than anything, because he’s been pestering him about the book’s whereabouts all week. Vaguely mumbles that he’s found it, that he’ll stop bothering him, even though he knows Jared doesn’t care, even before Jared voices,  _ loudly _ , that he doesn’t care. 

Jared sits right behind him during first period, which means that Evan has to wait until second before he looks at it. He’s not about to take another risk on  _ that  _ whole situation.

The suspense is excruciating.

His heart rate is 88 beats per minute.

He practically runs to the bathroom as soon as his teacher dismisses the class, locking himself in a stall and hoping he’ll have enough time to get a proper look at...whatever there is to look at. 

If there’s anything at all.

Maybe the joke was too much. Or the art request. Or just...Evan in general. Evan’s desperation, Evan’s weakness, Evan’s pathetic lack of anything that makes a human being worth knowing. Worth liking.

His heart rate is 92 beats per minute. 

He takes several deep, hitching breaths and counts again, but it’s still 92 beats per minute.

He opens the book.

And the book looks back.

Eyes. Sharp, black, beady eyes that immediately give the impression of intelligence, of curiosity. The eyes of something that’s studying him, that’s... _ learning.  _

It’s a bird. A sparrow of some kind, Evan guesses, though it doesn’t quite look like any real sparrow Evan’s ever seen, giving him the distinct impression that it was drawn from memory, or perhaps imagination, rather than from life. Its little downy head is cocked to the side as it regards Evan in still, silent interest, and it’s kind of round and fluffy and plump, almost like a robin. Evan wonders if it’s meant to be a baby.

It reminds Evan a little of his squirrel drawing.

In tiny, barely-there print, edging the bird’s wing, are a few lines of text. They read like song lyrics, or maybe a line from a poem. Evan’s not sure which.

_ My feathers seem to have taken the brunt of the storm _ _ , they are feeling pretty worn. _

Evan knows the feeling. More than he’d ever admit. 

He traces the page lightly, reflectively, staring into delicate spots of light in the eyes of the baby bird. 

Too young to already be worn down.

Evan doesn’t want to admit that he’s a little disappointed that there doesn’t seem to be anything more. No other text, no comment on his stupid joke; just the bird.

But it’s already quite a lot to take in. 

Firstly, the fact that it’s...it’s not a person. Not a face, or a figure, or a too-hard scrawl, which are all part of Mystery Scribbler’s usual repertoire. It’s something new, something so completely out of character that Evan has a stark moment of panic that this is  _ not  _ the work of Mystery Scribbler, that somebody else has been in  _ their  _ book. 

And the text. The handful of words, like a caption; describing, defining. That’s new, too. 

Evan quietly takes this all in.

His heart rate is still 92 beats per minute.

It’s only upon looking at it closely, closely enough that his eyes snag on the shadows, the details, the faint memory of guiding lines mostly rubbed away, that he spots the arrow. Very small, instructing him to turn the page.

Evan does as he’s told, and his heart rate keeps climbing.

_ Look I know nature is usually your thing and I’ve probably completely messed it up but. Fuck it. Trying new things, or whatever. “Branching out”. _

And here, Mystery Scribbler had drawn a tiny tree, distinctly cartoonish in style. 

Underneath it, they’ve written: 

_ You, probably. _

Then.

_ That was dumb. I should leave the jokes to you. The squirrel thing just about made me shoot milk out of my nose. It was gross, and it hurt. I hope you’re happy. _

Evan’s cheeks are beginning to hurt from how hard he’s smiling, so he supposes he  _ is  _ happy.

_ Anyway I just wanted to say thanks? Not only for saying such nice shit about my drawings but for just. Writing back to me I guess. I know it sounds completely fucking pathetic and I’m risking never hearing from you again but I don’t have all that much going for me right now and it’s just. It’s cool to have someone to talk to. Even if we don’t really talk and I don’t even know who you are. _

_ Maybe it’s better that way, even. If you knew me you  _ _ definitely  _ _ wouldn’t write me any more. _

_ But yeah. Sorry for the novel. And for like. Oversharing. And that it took me so long to reply. I could give an excuse but the truth is that I just ~suck~ _

_ PS: Gimme more art.  _

The page blurs, and Evan hears the scuffle of shoes out in the hall as people hurry to class, hears the last of the lockers slam and the teachers hurrying tardy students along.

He’s going to be late. Probably he’s  _ already  _ late.

But he can’t seem to do much of anything about it.

He continues to stare down at the open book in his lap, feeling overwhelmed and…

And oddly flustered, if he’s completely honest with himself.

Mystery Scribbler has definitely broken the record as far as quantity goes. He’s filled close to three quarters of a page with his untidy scrawl, and it almost looks as though he meant to keep going; underneath the last line, there a hard, solid little dot, like a pencil pressed into the paper and then removed.

He, she, whoever they are...they’ve actually written enough to give Evan a sense of character; a real sense of personality.

And...they’re  _ funny. _ Funny and...and strangely charming? Evan’s eyes latch onto the tiny tree, the  _ you, probably _ , the rather unflattering description of nose-milk, the  _ I hope you’re happy _ , which comes across as sardonic but somehow warm and teasing all at once. 

Evan can safely say that he  _ likes _ this person, whoever they are. He feels like he knows a tiny little sliver of them, now. 

And he wants to know  _ more.  _ Because the sliver is…

It’s a good sliver.

Charismatic and fun and humble and kind and…

And dredged in the most bone-deep sadness, with more loneliness than Evan thought possible to convey through writing alone. He touches his finger to the words  _ I just suck _ , to the  _ fucking pathetic. _ Covers them up completely, as though that could make the feeling go away.

As though that could make his  _ own  _ feelings go away.

It doesn’t.

Of course it doesn’t.

He closes the book, shoves it into his bag, and hurries quickly off to class (but not before washing his hands, even though he didn’t actually use the bathroom but just in case someone else happened to come in and saw him leave the stall without washing his hands and thought he was completely fucking disgusting because these are things that matter to Evan and these are things that Evan just. Does.).

Thoughts of the bird remain.

Thoughts of... _ someone _ , remain. 

Evan’s 92 beats-per-minute heart rate remains.

For a moment, anyway, but Evan’s sure it jitters even faster when he stumbles through an apology for being late, when his History teacher admonishes him in front of the entire class anyway.

He slips quietly to his seat, blindly digs out a pile of random books, counts the beats (still 92), and takes a few slow, steady breaths. 

_ My feathers seem to have taken the brunt of the storm _ _ ,  _ Evan repeats to himself, in his head; a mantra; breathing in, breathing out.

_ They are feeling pretty worn. _

He calms himself, a mental whisper of  _ my feathers, my feathers are feeling pretty worn.  _

He’s calm.

Not enough to actually focus on whatever’s happening in class. But calm enough that he can breathe; that he doesn’t feel quite so buffeted about by every noise and every sudden movement and every person that glances his way.

Not that anyone ever  _ does _ glance his way.

But he peeks cautiously around the classroom, as he always does. Just to  _ check.  _

And is struck with a jolt of terror when he makes direct eye contact with someone who is peeking back.

His eyes instantly fly to his desk, face heating with the distinct shame of having Looked At A Person, and he does his best to busy himself with quietly shuffling his books around, though he barely sees them.

Why can he still feel eyes on him? 

That’s...that’s got to be in his head, right?

People don’t...people don’t look at Evan. Not unless they’re wanting to embarrass him, or he’s already gone and embarrassed himself.

And coming to class late, that’s not  _ that _ embarrassing, right? 

Evan sticks his wrist under his desk and does his best to discreetly count the beats.

He loses count several times, then gives up.

But it’s fast.  _ Fast  _ beats-per-minute.

He sucks back a tiny breath, then fearfully glances up, in the direction of…

Of a boy, who is absolutely and definitely  _ still looking at him _ .

Evan is quick to look away.

It’s Zoe Murphy’s brother. Zoe Murphy’s mysterious and extremely intimidating brother; the one that hides a switchblade in his pocket and laces weed with cocaine before selling it to freshmen, if you believe what Jared says. 

Which Evan doesn’t, as a general rule.

Still, whether the rumors are true or not, it doesn’t make him any less intimidating. Zoe Murphy’s brother (Colton? Cory? Something like that) has always had that air about him. Evan’s not sure if he’d quite call it confidence, exactly. 

More just...the impression that he had nothing to lose.

And that was intimidating. 

Also intimidating is the fact that he’s...he’s like,  _ really  _ attractive. Or whatever.

He’s grown his hair out over the summer, and it falls in loose, soft waves down past his jaw, which is stunningly angular in contrast. He’s pale, with watercolor-rings of lavender beneath his eyes and a few freckles scattered randomly across his face. He’s dressed in various shades of dark graphite, as he always is, and his fingernails are blunt and black against the white, sharp chin resting in his hand. 

And his eyes are.

His eyes are still fixed on Evan, as it were. 

Unabashed, unashamed. Just looking.

It’s not a frown or a glare or a glower, or any other type of look Evan would have expected from him. 

It’s almost...curious. Interested. 

Evan almost thinks he sees the slightest inclination of a smile.

For the third time, Evan stares back down at his desk in panic.

He’s being made fun of. He’s sure of it. He’s got something on his face.  _ Something. _

Why  _ else  _ would Zoe Murphy’s scary, tall, kind-of-actually-really-attractive brother be  _ looking  _ at him?

_ God _ , why would  _ any  _ actually-really-attractive person be looking at him? At  _ Evan? _

Evan swallows, then kicks himself for it because he’s  _ certain  _ the audible gulp can be heard across the room. 

Bracing himself, he tilts his head ever so slightly, and does his best to catch a glimpse of Zoe Murphy’s brother in his peripheral vision, then when he’s absolutely  _ sure  _ he’s no longer being stared at (being  _ smiled _ at, Evan’s brain supplies), lets his eyes slide on over to the tall, lean shadow seated by the window.

He’s halfway looking out of it, the window, with his jaw still resting in one hand. His eyes sort of drift shut for a moment like he’s falling asleep, and he forcibly blinks himself back to life. 

He does not look back in Evan’s direction, but for some reason it still feels like Evan’s heart rate is rising. 

Maybe it’s weird. Maybe it’s creepy.

But Mystery Scribbler, whoever they are, had done something new. Drawn something different, something in  _ Evan’s  _ usual style. 

And the little leather-bound book has somehow made it to the top of the pile on Evan’s desk. And it’s right in front of him.

And Evan can’t help it when inspiration strikes, can he?


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So why’re you so interested in Acorn, anyway?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> strap in y'all this is a long one  
@ all of my jared stans who were worried that he's just a straight up dick: he is a dick. but he cares!!! he just doesn't know how to show it yet. don't give up hope, he will learn  
TWs for talk of eating disorders, suicide ideation, and overdose. stay safe y’all  
thx for reading ily guys <33
> 
> come talk to us! c-e-c-r-o-p-i-a and theyellowestmustard on tumblr :-)

Connor finishes the project in one night. 

It’s not like he has anything else to do, frankly. 

Also, he’s not a fucking idiot. It’s not that hard. He’s not even sure why goddamn Kleinman had to go as far as paying him to get out of it. 

Not that he’s complaining. He’s got twenty bucks to blow. 

All the fuck he had to do was write a paper, which wasn’t even more than three pages, and then make a stupid PowerPoint for the stupid presentation they’d have to do at the end of the month. That’s it. 

Easily the work of one person. 

He’s not sure he’s exactly winning at this whole “attempting to try/trying not to think about suicide” thing, but getting the project done seemed to be a good first step. The only real problem is that, now, Connor doesn’t have shit left to do.

Except, like. Kill himself. 

Which he isn’t supposed to be thinking about right now. Except he’s such a fuck-up that he can’t even go two seconds without thinking about it, so. 

Whatever. 

He’s practically on house arrest anyway, so all he really has to keep himself occupied other than  _ that _ is, like. Stalking people on Instagram. Or Facebook. Or maybe he could look for Evan’s twitter again, just to check and see if he missed it the first time. 

God, he’s not just a fuck-up. He’s also really fucking creepy. 

Either way, as it turns out, Evan Hansen does not have a Twitter. He doesn’t seem like the type, anyway. 

To be fair, he doesn’t seem like the type of person who’d carry around a little sketchbook that says  _ don’t kill yourself _ on one of the pages, purposefully revisiting it so he does not, in fact, kill himself, either. 

And there Connor is again, thinking about fucking suicide again. 

Connor just. He wishes that he could just  _ talk _ to Evan, just work up the courage and go right up to him, and…

Probably scare him off. Y’know, considering the fact that all Connor’s done since he found out the identity of his pen pal is to find literally any excuse to just… watch him. See what he’s up to. What he’s like. His little tics. 

Evan’s got a lot of those, Connor had observed. 

He laughs, like, a lot. Like, an insane amount. More than what is considered normal. And the weird part is that most of the time, if not all the time, it never sounds, like… genuine. At all. It’s all just little titters, nervous ones, and then his hands will shoot down to his sides, and he wipes his hands on his jeans, and then he goes straight for the hem of his shirt, tugging on it so harshly that Connor sometimes wonders if that’s why all of his shirts are kind of baggy around the middle. 

Not that Connor’s any different. He buys all of his shirts a little too big so no one can tell that sometimes he feels so sick that he just doesn’t eat. And that no one can question the size or shape of his body ( _ mom _ ).

It used to be so that no one could tell that he just flat out wasn’t eating. On purpose. 

But even after that whole thing was cleared up in his brain after a lot of rehab and hard fucking work, the big t-shirt thing kind of stuck, he guesses. It’s just. More comfortable. He doesn’t want attention of any kind, really, and if no one can see his body, they can’t really comment on it. That’s Connor’s thought process, anyway. 

Well. They can comment, even with Connor’s giant shirt, and they  _ do _ , but. Just. Not as much as before. 

Evan probably doesn’t get made fun of for shit like that. He can’t, not when he looks so… normal. Clean-cut, unlike Connor. He looks average. Like any other heterosexual white boy at his stupid school. Honestly, when he found Evan’s Instagram, he kind of… had no idea that Evan even went to his school. Or, like… that he’s in his history class, stumbling in late with a very red face and sweat stains on the armpits of his polo. 

He had no fucking idea. And Evan was there the whole time, sitting a row ahead of him. Sweating. Picking at the seams of his clothes. 

And apparently drawing in the sketchbook that Connor’s currently got stashed at the bottom of his locker, forgotten in a pile of unfinished homework. 

Maybe he should stop smoking. It might help his stupid fucking memory if his brain cells weren’t being practically knocked out of his head every single day. 

He rolls over in bed. 

He’ll get it tomorrow. 

For now, the three lone pictures on Evan’s Instagram are calling his name. 

…

“So why’re you so interested in Acorn, anyway?” 

Connor slides his steely gaze over to Jared. “Thought I told you to leave me the fuck  _ alone _ . That was a part of our deal, remember? I could easily tell Miss Clemens that you bailed on me—“

Jared holds up his hands. “Chill  _ out _ , bro. I was just—“

“ _ Don’t _ call me that.”

Jared visibly falters. And then he hardens, body going tense, eyes narrowing. “Just wondering why you’re so, like, weirdly obsessed with him.”

Connor doesn’t respond. Tries to take a measured breath in through his nose. 

“It’s just weird, man,” Jared adds under his breath, and. 

“Who the fuck are you even talking about?” Connor asks out of frustration. “ _ Acorn _ ?”

“You know.  _ Evan _ .” Jared laughs, like it had been obvious. “Like… do you have some kind of hit on him? Because I can tell you, that guy may be a giant pain in my ass, but he’s never done anything to warrant being murdered.”

Connor just stares at him. 

It’s something that Connor’s learned to do over the years. If you stare at someone long enough, eventually they give up and just… stop talking to you. They get weirded out. 

But. 

“So… ‘s that a yes, or are you gonna just keep staring at me like a frickin’ weirdo? Because as his best family friend I’m kind of, like,  _ obligated _ to defend his honor.” 

_ Family friend _ . What a dick. 

Connor turns away, looks up front. “Are you  _ obligated _ to be annoying, too?”

Jared just scoffs. 

For a second, Connor thinks he’s done. 

“Shouldn’t you be, like. Working on our project? Or are you just gonna take my twenty bucks and use it to go overdose in the parking lot?”

The words strike a chord in him. 

Something deep, deep inside his chest. Clawing at his ribs. Sizzling up his throat, mouth turning sour. 

He whips his head in Jared’s direction. 

“ _ Fuck you _ .”

He’s out of his chair before Jared can even blink, ripping his books off the table and storming out of the classroom. He doesn’t give a single shit who sees him, or stares at him, or calls for him. 

As if. 

… 

Connor’s going to throw up. 

Actually. He’s going to vomit. 

But he locks himself in one of the bathroom stalls, fighting against his own body, forcing himself to swallow it back because he just can’t, if he throws up then he’s afraid he’s going to remember how much he used to like the feeling. 

It reminds him of how he felt that night, after the first day of school. How Jared had fucked with him in the hallway and he had just— he had just fled the building, Gone home and dry-swallowed all of his mom’s painkillers from her gallbladder surgery. 

God, he can almost feel that sick bubbling at the back of his throat, lighting his insides on fire. Choking him. 

Fuck. 

He’s not sure how long he stays there, in the bathroom. 

Long enough for the bell to ring. 

The door slams open. 

“He’s fucking batshit, dude. I had no idea he’d get so pissed about it. It was just a joke.”

Great. He can’t even escape Kleinman long enough to get some peace and fucking quiet. 

“Yeah,” Comes a higher-pitched, breathier voice. “I mean… I’m sure you didn’t mean— you didn’t mean anything bad by it...”

“I  _ didn’t _ ,” Jared sneers. “I didn’t fuckin’ mean it, Jesus. I didn’t think he would, like… freak the fuck out about it, at least. Should’ve, but hindsight is 20/20, as they say.” He sighs. 

“Your… um. Your hind— hindsight must have missed an exam.”

A breathy laugh. 

Connor’s stomach twists in knots, flips over itself two times in a row. Then three. 

It’s Jared. Why  _ wouldn’t _ Evan Hansen be around him? Who the hell else would it be?

“What the fuck does that even mean, Acorn?”

_ Acorn _ . Connor still had no idea what that nickname means. 

“How can your  _ sight _ miss an  _ exam _ ?” Jared adds. And then Jared laughs. Insultingly so. He laughs like Evan’s the stupidest person he’s ever had the displeasure of knowing. 

_ It’s funny _ , Connor finds himself thinking at Jared, like he's actually a part of this conversation.  _ It’s a joke. Evan’s trying to make a joke. _

And it was a pretty good joke, too. Evan’s fucking funny. 

“Well, um— like— you know, like, like sight, right? But instead it’s— what, uh, what I meant was—“

“Just— stop trying to make jokes, dude,” Jared laughs at him. “They’re not funny.”

Connor can fucking  _ feel _ Evan’s spirit wiltering. 

And he feels… a little bit angry on Evan’s behalf. 

“I just…” Evan breathes, laughing that exhale of a laugh again, except it’s quieter this time.  _ He’s _ quieter this time. Empty. “I just… I just thought…”

“You think Murphy’s gonna kick our asses?” Jared asks, completely ignoring everything Evan’s just said. 

Connor’s blood runs cold at the mention of his name. 

And then his blood runs very, very hot. 

He prepares himself to jump right out of this stall and throttle Jared fucking Kleinman where he stands, because it was a part of the deal that he would never fucking mention that Connor asked about him, but—

Evan about chokes. 

“I mean, like— I said what I said and pissed him off and you never leave me alone, so you’re  _ bound _ to end up in the crossfire—“

“M-Murphy?” Evan stutters out.“You. Earlier you called him. Um. What did you—? In the hallway. What did you. You said.”

Jared snorts. “ _ Connor Murphy _ . Zoe Murphy’s freaky stoner brother? Tall, dark, and handsome? Kinda hot, but also looks like he’d play Edward in the homoerotic musical version of Twilight?”

Connor’s… he’s not sure if he should feel insulted or not, if he’s being honest. 

Evan doesn’t say anything. 

“I’m team Edward, personally. You seem like you’d be—“

“You said—? You said his name was—? It—?”

“ _ C-O-N-N-O-R _ .” Connor’s name is spelled as if it’s being shouted at a toddler. He hears Evan gasping for air, a choked-off laugh. “You ready for the next part, Evan?  _ M-U— _ “

“No, I— I got it, I— I, I should— I’m— I’m gonna be late for, for, uh— for s… something,” And then Connor hears the door swing open and slam again. 

And then Jared lets out this disbelieving laugh, sighing before he leaves as well. 

Connor doubts Jared’s going to follow him. 

And. 

Evan’s… afraid of him. 

That’s quite clear. Evan heard his name, freaked the hell out, and now he’s gonna go switch schools or something because he thinks Connor’s gonna kill him. 

Because that’s just Connor’s fucking luck, isn’t it? 

… 

For the second time in a span of three hours, Connor feels like he’s going to throw up. 

Because. 

He’s been dying to get this book open today, keeping it as something good that happened today, something that’s fucking decent, and now as he looks down at the book on his lap and scans the pages, he’s frozen, because. 

His own face is staring back up at him. 

At least, he  _ thinks _ it’s his face. 

It’s not realistic at all. It’s like Evan wasn’t really striving for realism in the first place, which Connor actually really appreciates. Evan’s style is more cartoon-y, but he managed to make it look exactly like Connor. Just simpler. 

He got the hair down for sure. Almost like he’d been… looking at Connor as he drew him, or something. Maybe that’s why he kept glancing at him during history. And Evan pretty much nailed his eyes, even if they’re just a smidge too low on his face— and Connor’s nose is a little smaller than it actually is, which Connor figures is just Evan being generous. He wasn’t generous with Connor’s ears though, because they stick out on the sides of his face like Connor’s ears actually do. 

But on this version of him, it doesn’t look stupid. It doesn’t look geeky and childish and weird on Evan’s version of him. 

For some reason, the thought makes Connor’s ears heat up. 

He pushes his hair back, swallowing and reading the small passage of text underneath:

_ I tried. Sorry it’s bad.  _

_ You wouldn’t like me if you knew who I am either, so don’t worry. We can just keep living in ignorant bliss if that’s what you’d prefer.  _

_ P.S. You provide more jokes and I’ll provide more art.  _

_ Sincerely, _

Underneath, Evan’s drawn the same little cartoon tree that Connor had joked about on the previous page. 

Connor exhales a disbelieving laugh and flips back one page. 

Underneath Connor’s drawing, so light he can barely see it, Evan has traced a line underneath the text Connor had put there. 

He wasn’t even going to put it there. He thought it might be, like… stupid. But since he was putting his entire ass on the line anyway, he figured he’d keep it. 

Connor flips back to Evan’s newest drawing. 

And he’s. A little confused. 

Evan obviously knows who he is, right? He drew Connor’s face. It’s right there. So why hasn’t he reached out? Is he just writing back because he’s a good person and Connor had made a fool out of himself and told him it was nice to have someone to talk to? That’s something Evan Hansen would do. He’d write Connor out of pity. 

And, now that he had to go and freak out on Kleinman, Evan’s probably never going to write back again, even if he knows he’s been writing Connor. Because Connor’s stupid and scary and angry and he’s just— he’s just  _ himself _ . And it’s not enough. 

He knows Evan hates him. He can feel it in his gut. 

That’s why he had that reaction in the bathroom earlier. He went to go throw up because it turns out that the person he’s been writing is a giant bag of flaming shit who storms out on his friends and looks like he could and would murder anyone on the spot. 

And also, Jared Kleinman thinks Connor’s kind of hot. Which is. It’s just a lot of information to process at once. 

It’s over, Connor realizes with a heavy feeling settling on his heart. He had his chance, and he fucked it up. His one chance at having an actual friend is fucking over. It’s gone. 

He throws the book against his wall, groaning when it doesn’t make a loud enough noise. So he smacks his pillow against the wall, but he’s run out of things that make noise since his parents don’t trust him to be around any sort of solid object anymore, and that just makes him angrier. 

He pulls the covers up over his head, letting the numb icy feeling of disappointment trickle through his veins. 

He starts to shiver. 

There’s no point in getting up for school tomorrow, Connor thinks. 

No point in getting out of this bed ever again. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s warm in the bathroom, but a chill wraps its way around Evan’s bones and holds tight. 
> 
> Fear-cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! We are back at it again with An Entire Chapter Of Evan Panicking. Oof.
> 
> No TW come to mind for this chapter but let me know if you think anything ought to be tagged!
> 
> The Tumbles: theyellowestmustard & c-e-c-r-o-p-i-a (we love talking to people!)
> 
> xx

* * *

Upon leaving Jared in the boys’ bathroom, the first thing Evan does is make a beeline for the boys’ bathroom.

The next-closest one, the one down the hall and around the corner; near the art block. 

He practically runs the whole way, eyes darting in a frenzy through the crowded corridor, searching for gaps between people, weaving through the sea of faces and feet with uncharacteristic dexterity, only pausing to glance over his shoulder so he can be absolutely sure that Jared isn’t following him.

He isn’t, which is a relief. But it also stings, a little.

But Evan doesn’t dwell on that for too long.

He can’t. Even if he wanted to. 

His limbs are all kind of numb, kind of cold, kind of heavy, and it feels like somebody has scoured his brain with a fistful of steel wool. Rubbed it clean; peeled bits away, leaving his ears ringing and a strangely bitter taste in the back of his mouth. 

_C-O-N-N-O-R._

A double-N. Right in the middle.

Connor.

Connor Murphy. 

Connor Murphy, the brother of Zoe Murphy, the same Zoe Murphy Evan had been infatuated with all of junior year because she had long shiny hair and freckles on her nose, and one time he’d been standing behind her in the cafeteria line and he’d accidentally stood on the heel of her shoe as he’d shuffled forward and she’d stumbled a little and almost fallen over, and Evan had apologized profusely, but she hadn’t even looked mad about it, just grinned and told him that if _he _didn’t inadvertently kill her the food certainly would so there was no harm done either way.

And Evan had convinced himself he was in love with her after that; with soft, sunshiney Zoe Murphy, and had spent the remainder of the school year doing whatever he could to simultaneously get her attention _ and_ hide from it. 

Until he realized that it wasn’t Zoe’s attention he really wanted.

It was _anyone’s. _

And nothing has changed since then, really. 

Evan hasn’t changed.

Evan is a constant; a sad, lonely, pitiful constant. Still friendless, boneless, spineless. So completely, woefully incompetent at connecting with literally fucking anyone that he’s hurtling down the hall in search of an empty fucking bathroom so he can just have his mental breakdown in Peace And Fucking Quiet.

_C-O-N-N-O-R._

Connor Murphy. Zoe Murphy’s brother, Connor Murphy. 

Mystery Scribbler is Connor Murphy.

Tall, skinny, scary, angry, _intimidating_ Connor Murphy. Connor Murphy, who supposedly, allegedly, hides a switchblade in his pocket and laces weed with cocaine before selling it to freshmen.

Connor Murphy with the scattered freckles and satiny curls and the soft, lovely shadows under his eyes.

The soft, lovely shadows...that Evan has _drawn. _

In the _book._

Which.

Which Connor is now _in possession of._

Evan is very, very glad he has reached the art block bathroom, and even more glad that it’s empty. 

Because he’s suddenly convinced that he’s about to be sick.

He drops like a stone to the pock-marked gray of the floor, knees weak and hands shaking. His stomach lurches, but nothing comes up.

Fuck, what the _fuck_, what the fuck has Evan _done?_

What has he _done?_

A thick film of tears blurs his vision for a moment, and he does his best to breathe, but it’s like the tears are gathering in his throat rather than his eyes, and when he tries to take in a lungful of air he almost chokes. 

Almost drowns.

He coughs hard, and it hurts his chest, and he is pathetic and stupid and absolutely ridiculous. He knows.

Sniveling in a bathroom on his hands and knees. How much lower can Evan possibly fucking sink?

_“Stop it,”_ he whispers to himself, harshly. _“Stop it, stop it, stop it.”_

But he can’t. He can’t stop.

Because it's ruined. It's all ruined now, all over. 

He doesn't want it to be. But he knows that it is. 

Because there's no way, absolutely no chance that Connor's going to want to continue this game now that he knows he's been swapping art with _Evan. _

And Connor _knows_ Evan's on the other side of the pages. He _has_ to know. The staring at him in class, the book so conveniently left right on top of Evan's locker. It all clicks together, so perfect and complete that Evan feels like a total moron for not having pieced it together sooner.

Mystery Scribbler--Connor--knows. He knows who Evan _is_.

_You wouldn’t like me if you knew who I am either,_ Evan had written.

And now Connor _knows._

And he isn’t going to like it. To like Evan. 

Because why would he? Why would Connor Murphy be interested in getting to know _him? _

What the hell is there of Evan that Connor Murphy would consider worth liking?

And Jesus fuck, even _if_ he’d had a chance, even _if_ there’d ever been the smallest semblance of a chance that Evan might actually get to know Connor Murphy, for real, in person, the Connor Murphy that makes tree puns and likes dumb jokes and digs his pencil in too hard…

Even _if_.

Even if there was ever any chance, Evan’s gone and fucked it all up, because he just had to go and _draw Connor Murphy himself in the fucking book. _

_Fuck._

Evan shakes his head hard, like an etch-a-sketch; trying to clear the bad thoughts away. They roll back in; tiny iron filaments of Badness, crawling towards the surface.

That drawing. That _stupid fucking drawing._

It’s bad news for Evan no matter which way he looks at it.

Because.

Because Evan thinks that it was actually a decent drawing. Cartoony, sure. But still reasonably true-to-life. Recognizable as Connor, he thinks. 

And, like.

He’d been aiming for true-to-life, so.

So it’d come out...pretty. 

Because Connor is pretty.

And.

And if Connor also thinks that the drawing is pretty, then Evan’s effectively outed himself as a total creep who _thinks Connor is pretty. _

Which will not end well for him. Fuck, if the stories about Connor are true, Evan’ll be lucky to get out of this situation with his skull intact.

And it’ll only be worse if Connor _doesn’t_ think Evan’s rendition of him is pretty. If he hates it…

Evan should’ve shrunk the ears in. Or made him look less skinny. Not shaded under the eyes so much.

Evan should’ve not drawn the damn thing at all.

It’s warm in the bathroom, but a chill wraps its way around Evan’s bones and holds tight. 

Fear-cold.

Mixed in with self-loathing and anger and.

And grief.

Evan’s never really mourned before. The only person he knows who has passed away is his grandma on his father’s side, and that happened when he was only four and too young to really understand the significance of it; the permanence. Loss, and what it really means.

But he understands now.

It’s stupid, he tells himself. He’s stupid. To mourn the loss of someone he’d never really known.

_Get a fucking grip._

_Get your fucking shit together. _

Evan rubs at his eyes, stumbles to his feet, grabs his bag, and forcibly snaps his brain shut like a clam.

Just so he can get through the rest of the day.

By the time he gets home he’s so tired from blocking each and every thought of Connor and drawings and sketchbooks that he falls asleep at 4pm; on top of the covers, still wearing his shoes.

It’s dreamless and uninterrupted, but he still feels exhausted when he wakes.

* * *

Connor Murphy does not come back to school.

He has not shown up for three days.

At first Evan’s almost relieved. No Connor means no uncomfortable conversations, no big-reveal.

No getting his face punched in. 

Not yet, anyway. 

At first, Evan’s okay. His stream-of-consciousness, usually racing, plateaus. Connor’s probably just late. Connor might even be at school somewhere and Evan just hasn’t seen him. 

But the plateau doesn’t last, and Evan spends the late-afternoon of day one in a state of gradually escalating concern.

By day two, the concern has become worry.

By day three; full-blown panic. 

Because with each passing moment, it becomes clearer. More and more obvious. Connor has ditched school because of what Evan drew in the book, because he’s embarrassed and he’s disgusted and he’s mortified and he’s avoiding Evan At All Costs.

He fights the urge to ask Jared if he’s seen him around anywhere. That’s the last thing Evan needs right now; to make Jared any more suspicious about this whole...Connor...thing.

There’s no point, anyway. Evan’s had History twice over the three days and both times Connor’s seat by the window has been decidedly empty. 

Evan doesn’t need confirmation. The fact is that Connor is not at school.

And it’s probably because of Evan.

The whole thing leaves Evan in a very strange, very cyclical state of mind. Because he’s trying to avoid drawing, to avoid art; anything that could potentially trigger the spiraling thoughts of how he’s fucked everything up so he doesn’t have a breakdown in the middle of one of his classes. 

But, contrary to that, drawing is one of the few things that actually keeps Evan calm.

So he finds himself doodling aimlessly throughout the school day; in the margins of his notes, on spare sheets of loose leaf. He counts his breaths quietly, subtly, measuring the seconds by the lengths of soft gray lines, finding rare moments of peace in the familiarity of leaves and mushrooms and wildflowers. Like coming home to your own bed after a long time away.

It doesn’t feel right without the sketchbook.

Evan wonders if he’ll ever see it again. 

Wonders if Connor’s thrown it away by now. Torn it to shreds, or set it alight.

He shoves that particular thought away.

It’s out of Evan’s control, regardless.

Not important.

It’s sixth period, and Evan is drawing feathers. Velvety clusters of them in the bottom corner of his notebook. Not attached to like, a bird or anything. Just feathers, drifting slowly downwards. It’s all much softer than how Evan usually draws; the lines less crisp, less defined. He likes how they’ve turned out; like the kind of feathers in pillows, all light and wispy, suspended in the air.

_My feathers seem to have taken the brunt of the storm, they are feeling pretty worn. _

The words seem to form in Evan’s brain out of nowhere, jolting him out of his reverie, and he tries desperately to cram them back down, but it’s too late.

_My feathers seem to have taken the brunt of the storm, they are feeling pretty worn. _

It’s from a song, Evan now knows. He’d looked it up; a soft, sweet little acoustic number from this indie artist he’d never heard of. Evan liked it a lot; had listened to it over and over.

It’s weird now, associating that song with Connor Murphy. It doesn’t feel like it fits him quite right. 

_But,_ Evan reminds himself,_ it’s not like you actually Connor at all. You never have._

Something about the words stick in his mind, as he stares down at the feathers in his book, and it’s not just because now he knows the tune that goes along with them.

_Feeling pretty worn._

It’s just. It’s so relatable. 

Lots of things that Connor’s written have been relatable, honestly. Evan practically knows it all by heart; has committed all the parts that strike a chord to his pathetic little memory.

_I’ve probably completely messed it up._

_I don’t have all that much going for me right now._

_I just ~suck~._

_I know it sounds completely fucking pathetic._

_Feeling pretty worn._

_Feeling pretty worn._

And the thought doesn’t hit him, exactly; more like it sinks in, slow and heavy and sticky, like trying to swim through mud.

Is...is Connor okay?

As in..._okay_-okay? Like. Safe, right now?

Safe, like. From himself?

And the thought sinks in, and it keeps on sinking until it’s sunk too deep for Evan to fish it back out. The feathers on his page blur to silvery nothing. 

What if he _isn’t?_

God, Evan’s been so caught up in his own self-conscious, self-absorbed prattle, so _convinced_ that Connor hasn’t been at school because of him, but.

What if it’s something else?

What if he’s not okay?

Evan doesn’t feel good. He’s not sure exactly how to define the feeling, but he can say for certain that he does not feel good.

He doesn’t know what to do.

He feels trapped; lost. He doesn’t know anyone in Connor’s very limited social circle well enough to reach out and ask. Not without raising questions. Questions that Connor might not want asked. He doesn’t have Connor’s number, nor does he know his address. And even if he did, it’s not like Evan’s in a position to just drop by to check on him. Because Connor may well be just fine; just laying low because Evan Is Extremely Weird.

It also doesn't feel right to try to hunt him down on Facebook or Instagram or Twitter or whatever, for the same reasons. Because what if Connor just...doesn’t want to talk to him?

What if Connor is completely okay and just...hates Evan?

The gossamer-swirls of feathers shift back into focus.

My feathers seem to have taken the brunt of the storm, they are feeling pretty worn. 

And.

And Evan can’t do nothing. He can’t.

Maybe Connor’s avoiding him. Maybe Connor is revolted by him. Maybe Connor’s going to return to school tomorrow and punch Evan’s lights out.

Or maybe Connor needs somebody right now.

Maybe Connor needs to know that Evan’s still in.

Even if Connor isn’t.

He checks the wall clock, and is pleased to see that there’s still a good twenty minutes left of class. Just enough time.

He tears a handful of blank pages out of his notebook, and gets to work. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s quiet for a second. Outside of their little bubble people are passing, conversations are being held and groups are laughing and gathering their books and getting ready for their days, but. In their little space, in their reality that seems almost separate from everything else, everything’s quiet. It’s almost… peaceful. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> henlo i have return
> 
> tl;dr: THE BOYS,,,,, M E E T !
> 
> come scream at us about deh:  
c-e-c-r-o-p-i-a and theyellowestmustard on tumblr <333 love u guys thanks for reading!!!

_ It’s the least I can do _ , Connor tells himself. Tries to convince himself. It’s the least he can do for building Evan up, making him feel like he had someone he could confide in, and then immediately tearing him down. Making him nervous. Afraid. 

Afraid of  _ Connor _ . 

He shuffles through the hallways attempting to be unseen, to be unnoticed for once,  _ just _ for once, but when he takes his eyes off his beeline to Evan’s locker and glances just slightly to the left someone’s already looking at him. Waiting for him to fuck up. To break. 

He glances to the right. Still, there are eyes on him. 

Didn’t these people’s parents teach them not to fucking stare?

They stop when he looks at them, of course. Turning their heads before Connor can stab them, or shoot them, or sell them coke-laced weed or whatever the fuck else people say he’s capable of. They always look away. No one even bothers to spare him a passing glance. 

So it’s the least he can do. He can’t fix this, he can’t take it back, he can’t change his stupid broken brain and his shit personality, so. 

Jared Kleinman is almost always late for school. He’d told Connor this himself during one of those moments where Jared had been blabbing and Connor had been blatantly not responding in any way in case Jared started to notice that he was listening. But Connor’s a listener, and so when Jared had told him that he takes Evan to school every morning, Connor had kept that little sticky note of information and tacked it to the wall at the back of his brain. 

It’s only 7:35. Connor’s got a few minutes at least to put the book back on top of Evan’s locker, right where they’ve been leaving it, a little over the edge so Evan can see that it’s there. Connor hasn’t written anything in it, though, this time, because it’s officially over and there’s nothing Connor can do about it now. He’s skipped school for, like, three days, so there’s no way he could come back from that. Just pop up into Evan’s life again. 

And Evan doesn’t want him to do that anyway, so. 

Connor sulks down the halls, turning the corner toward Evan’s locker. Glancing down at the book one last time, he wishes he would have taken pictures of what’s inside. Because he’s actually made some decent work throughout this whole pen pal situation, but honestly, he doesn’t want to think about this trainwreck of feelings and confusion ever again. He doesn’t want to be reminded of his failures. Of a time where he tried— really, actually tried— and it backfired just like it always does. 

When he looks up again, he’s nearly at Evan’s locker. Just a couple of lockers down.

And then his heart jumps into his throat. 

And he freezes in place. 

Because.

Because he’s three down from Evan Hansen’s locker, and Evan Hansen himself is currently fidgeting in front of said locker, looking down at his shoes while Jared Kleinman reclines against the lockers next to him. 

And Connor’s just standing there. Staring at them. 

He should probably move. 

Evan murmurs something to Jared, glancing quickly to the side and back down, and his hair falls in front of his face a little bit. It looks fluffy and clean, unlike Connor’s hair, and he’s picking at his nails and, like,  _ Connor _ does that. 

Connor hears Jared laugh. Probably at Evan’s expense.

And then… Evan glances up.

He glances up and his eyes immediately lock on Connor’s. 

Connor’s definitely frozen in space then, blocking everything out except the awed look on Evan’s face. His smattering of freckles focused across the bridge of his nose, his wide green eyes, the way his lips are parted just slightly. He doesn’t look scared. He just looks… surprised, honestly. Not at all how Connor expected him to look.

And then, because actions have consequences, Jared Kleinman’s eyes follow Evan’s in a straight line to Connor’s. 

And then he smiles. 

“Well. Look who we have here!” Jared exclaims, stepping back so Evan and Connor can see each other a little bit clearer. He claps both of his hands together, glancing between the two of them.

Evan’s still staring at him. Connor’s still staring at Evan. 

Jared clears his throat. 

“Alright, well. I’m bored. See ya later, Acorn.” And then he pats Evan on the back way harder than what is necessary, snapping Evan out of his reverie. He looks behind himself pleadingly as Jared strides away, holding tight to his backpack straps, but Jared doesn’t look back. 

Connor swallows. His heart drops from his throat straight into his stomach. 

His eyes drop to the floor. 

He flips the book over in his hands. He can see Evan’s sneakers in his peripheral vision, and he’s shifting back and forth from foot to foot. 

“Um,” Evan says softly, forcing Connor to meet his eyes. Well— he could, if Evan were looking at him. He’s still looking at the ground. 

Evan clears his throat.

“Hi,” Evan says after what feels like forever. 

The corner of Connor’s mouth twitches upward. He bites back a laugh, because of course after this whole ordeal the only thing Evan Hansen can think of to say is fucking  _ hi _ . 

Connor gives back a lackluster salute type thing that he immediately regrets the second he does it. And he curses himself for being so fucking socially awkward that he can’t even give Evan a decent response, balling his free hand into a fist at his side. 

It’s quiet for a second. Outside of their little bubble people are passing, conversations are being held and groups are laughing and gathering their books and getting ready for their days, but. In their little space, in their reality that seems almost separate from everything else, everything’s quiet. It’s almost… peaceful. 

That is, until Evan’s eye twitches and he practically explodes in word-vomit; slamming his eyes shut, hands shaking where they grip at the hem of his shirt. 

“Listen, I’m— I’m, like, so,  _ so _ sorry if I made you uncomfortable with that drawing— that drawing I did of you? I mean, like, I didn’t even ask your permission and that’s  _ so _ creepy, like, that’s just so creepy of people to do, and— I can rip it out if you want, um, because— because I know that if, like, someone just drew me without my permission— not that anyone would even want to do that, actually, but, um— if someone did that I would, um, I would totally want them to rip it out and maybe I’d even be a little upset, so— if you’re upset, which I totally understand, like, it’s  _ so _ understandable, I can—”

“Are those drawings?” Connor asks him softly. 

Evan stops. Recalculates. Shakes his head. “You— what?”

Connor gestures to the pieces of notebook paper almost crushed in Evan’s right hand. “Those. Are they drawings?”

Evan looks down like he’s just realized he’s even holding something. “Um.”

Connor just waits. And he doesn’t mind waiting, really, even though he’s never been much of a patient person, because then he just gets to admire. Connor guesses that Evan spends a lot of his time outside, because like the bridge of his nose, Evan’s got freckles all along his arms, too. Connor can’t relate to that, sadly. He prefers to spend most of his time locked in his room where no one can touch him, no one can reach him. He starts to wonder if Evan has friends outside of school. Ones that he hangs out with, like, outdoors. Like a normal person. 

“Um,” Evan says again, and now he’s got the slightly crumpled papers a little bit smoothed out between both of his hands. 

It looks like if Evan Hansen were able to crawl out of his skin and hide in someone else’s, he would. And it’s a weird thing to think, but  _ Connor’s _ weird and it’s  _ true _ so, like, whatever. He’s shaking so hard that Connor’s convinced he’s going to drop those papers, sweat dripping down the side of his face, and he squeezes his eyes shut so hard it almost looks painful. 

Connor’s done causing this kid pain. 

“Just— here,” Connor says, thrusting the book forward with more force than necessary at the exact same time that Evan goes, “ _ Take them _ ,” all in one breath, extending the pile of notebook papers toward Connor with both hands. 

Connor looks at him for a second. Studies him. 

Evan shifts uncomfortably under Connor’s gaze. 

“Why?” Connor asks him, because. Evan’s afraid of him, clearly. And Connor doesn’t fucking want them if it’s just a way for Evan to get Connor to go away.

“Drawings,” Evan gasps out, and then he takes in a breath and shakes his head like he’s reorganizing his thoughts into the right order to come out as spoken words. “They’re drawings. I drew them. For— I drew them for, um, for you. So. Take them.”

Evan stares hard at the ground. He meekly moves the papers in Connor’s direction, reddening with every word. 

_ He’s lying _ , says the tiny voice at the back of Connor’s head. It sounds eerily like Larry.  _ Look how afraid he is of you. He’s lying.  _

“You’re lying,” Connor says before he can even process any of this. 

Evan’s head snaps up. “What?”

“You’re… you just want me to go away, and you’re giving me your shit so I’ll leave you alone, right? Because you’re… fucking afraid of me. Isn’t that right?” 

Evan blinks wildly at him. “No, I. No. I thought. I thought you were. You would.”

“What? You thought I was what?” Connor presses, feeling his blood pressure spike and his pulse pounding in his ears. And he’s screaming at himself inside his head to chill the fuck out, but once it’s begun it’s like he can’t stop it. He can’t fucking stop. “You thought I was gonna freak out on you or something, right?”

“ _ No _ ,” Evan says, like it’s a chore for him to force out any words at all. He’s got his eyes squeezed shut tight again, and he’s still holding out those fucking papers. “I thought you were— I thought you would—“

“ _ What _ ?”

“ _ I thought you would like these _ ,” Evan almost shouts, and the second it’s out of his mouth Evan clamps it shut and winces like he’s waiting for Connor to punch him. Or yell at him. Like he’s waiting to be hurt. He opens one eye just slightly. 

Connor deflates. The anger is gone in an instant, ice crackling through his veins to replace the burning heat. His ears go red. 

Of course he had to go and freak out on the one person who’s never even  _ once _ assumed anything bad about him. Of course his stupid fucking brain had to go and lie to him again, and fuck up everything good he has. Again. 

“I— I just— I thought…” Evan trails off, lowering the papers, eye twitching. “You didn’t come to school, I. I was. I dunno, I guess I was… worried. About you. So I.”

Evan stops. 

Stares at his shoes. 

“Never mind, it’s—“ Evan stops to laugh, that nervous tic of his. “It’s stupid,” He breathes, turning on his heel. “I’ll just— I’ll go.”

Connor stares stupidly after him for a moment. 

“No, wait,” Connor calls after he’s fully thawed out. 

Evan stops. 

Slowly turns around. 

Connor takes a couple of awkward steps toward him. And he does his best to keep eye contact with him, but for the most part he just ends up looking over Evan’s shoulder instead. 

“This is yours,” Connor says, handing Evan the book as some sort of peace offering. Because he can never fucking say what he truly means, he can never just be honest with anyone about anything. 

“I shouldn’t have taken it,” Connor mumbles, and Evan takes the little leather bound book from him almost robotically. He flips it over in his hands just like Connor had done minutes beforehand. 

“It’s… it’s okay,” Evan says, voice surprisingly stable. “I… wanted you to have it. I mean— I liked. What was happening. But— but if I creeped you out I totally get it, like—“

Evan  _ likes _ the little game they’re playing. 

Evan wants to keep going, even after this. Even after seeing who Connor is. How Connor is. How he can be. 

“Evan,” Connor interrupts. He hopes it wasn’t too harsh. Evan looks up at him, wide-eyed, and Connor loses his whole entire train of thought. It doesn’t just go off the tracks, it just. Completely disappears into thin air. Poofs out of existence. 

“Thanks,” Connor says instead. 

A little crease forms between Evan’s eyebrows. 

Connor rolls his eyes, crosses his arms. “For, like. Worrying about me, or whatever.”

_ If it’s even true _ , that voice says. 

The crease disappears. 

“Here,” Evan says, the tiniest amount of confidence in his voice. He holds out the papers to Connor once again. “Here. I… I meant it. These are for you. I… I drew them for you.”

Slowly, like he’s afraid Evan’s going to pull them back and yell  _ sike _ or some shit, Connor reaches for the papers. 

Evan’s arms are back at his sides as soon as the papers brush Connor’s fingers, and he’s fidgeting with the binding on the book. 

Connor looks down at them stupidly. 

“They’re not that good, um, because I did them in, like, one period. But I thought… I dunno, I thought…”

He trails off. Connor is still staring at them like an idiot. 

“If you don’t like them, I—“

The shrill sound of the late bell ringing from above them causes Connor’s eyes to drift upward just in time for Evan to jump about five feet in the air. 

Connor finally finds his voice. 

“We should…”

“Yeah,” Evan quickly agrees, and Connor almost laughs. Evan doesn’t even know what he’s agreeing to. Connor could be suggesting that they should go and, like, make out behind the school or something. 

Which, like. He would never suggest. But like, as an example. 

Evan looks up at him. “Will you be here tomorrow?” And then his face crumples and he quickly back tracks. “I mean, you know— I don’t want anyone to take the book, so. When I leave it on the lockers… you’ll be here? You’ll…”

Connor knows what he’s asking. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be here.”

Evan gives him the ghost of a smile. “Good.”

A pause. 

“Like, I don’t want anyone to take it, so. I’m glad you’ll be here. To— to get it.”

“Right,” Connor says. 

“ _ Okaybye _ ,” Evan squeaks out, and turns on his heel again to scurry down the hall. 

“Bye,” Connor murmurs, barely a whisper. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let us know what u think!!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's strange, because Evan probably should be afraid of Connor Murphy. Especially after that sudden burst of paranoid anger in the hallway. Evan ought to be scared of him.
> 
> But he's not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AYYYEEE we're back again! I had fun writing this one, so i really hope you guys enjoy it 😁
> 
> TW: very mild reference to Evan's suicide attempt. No worse than what's already in the musical though!
> 
> Come talk to us on Tumblr! We love inboxes!!
> 
> @theyellowestmustard 🌞🌭  
@c-e-c-r-o-p-i-a 🦋🐛

* * *

When Evan’s mom asks him that afternoon if he’d had a good day at school, Evan shrugs and offers a vague, mumbled _ ‘I dunno.’ _

He knows that’s like...the worst teenage-boy cliche in the book.

And he knows his mom deserves better. A better answer than that. Jesus, it’s the first afternoon she’s had off in weeks.

But the truth is; Even really _ doesn’t _know. 

Honestly, the whole school could’ve burnt to the ground, or been invaded by zombies, or turned into fucking gingerbread, and Evan probably wouldn’t have noticed. He’d probably have continued to just stagger mindlessly from class to class on autopilot, with barely a thought in his head other than the fact that Connor Murphy is much taller than Evan thought he was.

Like. He’s _ really _tall. 

He’s got to be at least six foot, surely.

And Evan’s pretty sure he'd spent most of their interaction in the hallway slouched over. Making himself small. So probably he’s even _ taller _than six foot.

Evan spends a great portion of his day thinking about that.

Also about the words _ interaction in the hallway,_ because it still just...doesn’t quite feel real.

The fact that Evan spoke to Connor Murphy, and Connor Murphy spoke to Evan. 

And Connor Murphy...maybe doesn’t hate Evan.

And Connor Murphy is probably going to keep drawing with Evan.

And the inevitable disaster Evan had spent so long building up in his head had just...not happened. Fizzled away. Which, okay sure, that happens pretty frequently because Evan often creates these outlandish scenarios in his head and convinces himself they are very real problems that he should be very really worried about, and then they don’t happen, because of course that new freckle on his arm isn’t a melanoma, and of course his English teacher doesn’t secretly hate him, and of course nobody has found out about the whole thing with his arm last summer.

But he’d been _ so sure_, this time. So sure that this whole... _ thing. _This...friendship?

Whatever you’d call it, Evan had been _ sure _that it was over.

And it’s not.

Of course that doesn’t stop Evan from overthinking most of the day. He replays the way his voice had cracked on his pitiful little _ okaybye _, the way he’d fidgeted awkwardly with the book. He sees his own sweaty hands, holding the crumpled papers at arm’s length, like he was...trying to feed a fucking alligator, or something.

He wishes he'd had the guts to explain to Connor that he wasn't afraid of him, specifically. That he's afraid of just...social interaction altogether. 

Which is... it's strange, because Evan probably _ should _ be afraid of Connor Murphy. Especially after that sudden burst of paranoid anger in the hallway. Evan ought to be scared of him.

But he's not. Nervous, apprehensive, anxious; sure.

Jittery.

But not afraid.

Evan can't really explain that. 

So the day goes by in an odd, smudgy blur, like graphite smeared across paper, like a drawing that's been scribbled out. And Evan goes home, and mumbles a few indistinct things to his mom who looks at him with that same old concern that's practically vintage by now, and he feels guilty about brushing her off but he just wants to hide alone in his room and try to clear all the muck of the day out of his head.

He finds himself sitting at his desk, staring vacantly out of the window. Seeing nothing; feeling and thinking way too much.

Connor had been so sure that Evan had been lying.

About the drawings. The ones he’d done for Connor.

Part of Evan wonders why. Why _ that _ was Connor’s first thought.

Another part of him completely gets it. Completely and totally. 

Because Evan’s still a little bit convinced that Connor Murphy is only humoring him. That he’d given Evan back his book because he wants this whole mess to be over with. That he has no intention of collecting it again at the lockers tomorrow. That he only said that he would because he’d wanted Evan to go away.

  
  


But also.

Also, Evan remembers the way his eyes had softened, after Evan had practically shouted at him. The way all the ice in his gaze seemed to be scraped away in one crisp, clean sheet.

Evan hopes Connor likes the drawings. 

He’s not counting on it, of course, because he never does. That’s like, his _ thing. _

Mostly he just...hopes they’re not _ too _ cheesy.

They’d ended up being a pretty strange mish-mash, really. Like, in terms of tone and mood. Mostly because Evan barely knew Connor at all; didn’t know what went on in Connor’s head. Didn’t know whether he should be aiming to, like...cheer Connor up, or provide some sort of comfort, or a distraction, or none of those things? 

So he’d kind of...gone for a mix. 

On one sheet of paper, there’s a spindly-legged fawn with big, dark eyes. Almost a little Bambi-inspired, but not quite. Underneath her tiny, unsteady feet, Evan had carefully written:

_ Small shaky steps still count. _

He’d obsessed for a while whether or not he was overstepping, with a comment like that to a near-stranger, but he’d eventually opted to keep it. It was something his therapist had told him, one of the few things that had actually stuck, that had actually _ helped. _ And it was something Evan figured _ everyone _needed reminding of every now and then.

There’d also been the Existential Despair Badger. 

Which...Evan had _ tried _ to be funny. He probably wasn’t. Jared says he’s not.

But he’d added the badger to the pile of drawings anyway; a fat, fluffy storm cloud over his head, raining down on him while he stared out of the page with bug-eyed dread.

And, like. It had made Evan laugh, a little. And it had inspired him to do a few more. A few more goofy mental-health animals. 

A social anxiety chipmunk, and a duck with insomnia, and a Narcissistic Personality Disorder Manta Ray (complete with a little speech bubble: _ So many fish in the sea, and none of them truly realize how majestic I am...pathetic. _). 

All helpfully labelled. 

And then, just in case that was dumb, or unfunny or weird or (worst-case scenario) _ cruel, _ he’d padded out the pile with his usual stuff. Toadstools and mice and chubby bumblebees. Trees. A few flowers. 

Safe stuff. 

Stuff he already knew Connor liked.

He wonders if Connor’s looked through them yet.

He wonders what Connor’s doing right now.

It’s funny. Connor’s got that _ look _ about him; that effortlessly cool and mysterious look, dark and cold and sharp. It’s hard for Evan to imagine him just, like. Relaxing at home. Wearing sweatpants and fuzzy socks, lounging around with the TV on and a book in his hand. Evan tries to see it in his head, tries to picture it, but it’s like he can’t quite get the details right.

For a brief moment, he considers trying to draw it. The sketchbook is lying open on his desk, beckoning to him.

Connor at rest. Cozy Connor. Comfy Connor.

Evan reaches for the sketchbook.

And.

No.

No, no, _ no _ , what the hell is Evan _ thinking? _

He’s told Connor he’s going to leave the sketchbook on the lockers for him again. On the off-chance that Connor is actually a guy of his word and collects it, he _ can’t _ have done a _ second _drawing of Connor. Connor’s going to know that Evan…

Think. _ Think _ , Evan’s brain timidly corrects. Think, not _ know. _

Connor’s going to _think_ that Evan, like. Has some weird..._ thing _for him.

Which he _ doesn’t. _

Evan barely even _ knows _him.

He gives a brisk shake of his head. Grabs a pencil and sharpens it to a fine point.

Best for him to stick to his usual. More safe stuff.

_ Distracting _stuff.

Stuff that will stop him from thinking about the fact that Connor Murphy is very very tall.

And has really nice hair.

His hand hovers over the next blank page as he deliberates.

And a sudden, grating buzz snatches his ideas away, making him shoot out of his seat and sending his pencil clattering to the floor.

His phone.

Evan can’t remember the last time he’s gotten a notification.

He casts suspicious eyes over his nightstand, where his phone is plugged into the wall to charge. 

Could be his school email. Spam, or something. Or maybe some snide, mocking comment from Jared. 

Calling him Acorn.

Jared had been the only one who’d known about the thing with the tree. He only knew because he’d run into Evan and his mom on accident over summer break. Evan had gotten his cast off just before school started.

So nobody else knew.

Not even Jared, or Evan’s mom _ really _knew.

And Evan’s kind of getting a bit sick of the jokey nickname that’s come out of him literally wanting to die, in all honesty.

He’s not gonna check his phone.

Fuck Jared and his stupid fucking nickname.

Like. Evan’s jokes aren’t funny, but ‘Acorn’ _ is? _

Evan gets on his hands and knees in search of his pencil.

His phone buzzes a second time.

And Evan _ wants _ to ignore it, he wants to hurl his phone against a wall; he’d rather do that than have yet _ another _reminder of how he’s a failure of a person, how he’s pathetic and small with a broken brain and sweaty hands and a heart that beats too fast and too loud.

But he can’t.

With an aggravated sigh, he pushes himself off the ground, launches himself onto his bed, and taps his phone open. 

**_Instagram:_** _conmurph99 wants to send you a message._

Evan’s heart rams it’s way up into his throat, and a peculiar noise squeaks out of him.

_ conmurph99 wants to send you a message. _

_ 11 followers, 3 posts. _

_ Do you want to let _ ** _conmurph99 _ ** _ send you messages from now on? They’ll only know you’ve seen their request if you choose Allow. _

Evan’s never made a choice so quickly in his life.

**conmurph99: **hey so, sorry if its weird that im messaging u or whatever but i couldn’t wait until tomorrow to tell u that ur fuckin narcissistic personality disorder manta ray made me cry-laugh.

**conmurph99: **like. actual tears. 

Evan’s not sure exactly what he would label whatever it is he’s feeling about this, but he _ does _know it’s a Big Feeling.

Also that he’s grinning so hard he probably looks like a complete maniac.

**conmurph99: **shit i hope this is actually u, ur set to private so i cant actually check

Evan settles himself on the edge of his bed, heart hammering and brain working furiously to formulate a good-enough response.

In the end he settles on:

**EvHansen: **it’s me! I don’t have any pictures of myself on here anyway. its all just nature stuff and reference photos for art.

Then.

**EvHansen: **i’m glad u liked the manta ray :P

It’s embarrassing, how long Evan stares anxiously at that colon-capital-P before sending it. 

It’s too much. It’s probably too much.

**conmurph99: **what’s his name

Evan thinks about this for a second.

**EvHansen: **Narcissistic Personality Disorder Manta Ray

There’s no response for what feels like forever.

Finally:

**conmurph99: **you’re telling me thats his given name. like, at birth, his parents put that on his birth certificate.

**EvHansen: **yes.

**conmurph99: **i’m fucking WHEEZING

**conmurph99: **you’re really fucking funny 

Evan stares at that message for a long time.

Nobody has ever told him he’s _ funny _ before.

At least, not in the way he’s pretty sure Connor means it. Growing up, plenty of kids have told him that he acts funny, or talks funny.

But this is different.

Evan isn’t sure what to say. His fingers itch to type _ no I’m not, _ which he holds back. Does _ thank you _ sound too cocky, though? 

**conmurph99: **thank you again, btw. for the drawings when i wasnt there. usually nobody even notices when i don’t show up, so.

  
  


Something in Evan’s chest clenches painfully.

A small part of him desperately wants to throw up his defences; to build a wall around himself and _ not admit _ how much he relates to that.

But Connor has kind of just...put himself out there. 

He deserves to know he’s not alone.

**EvHansen: **i’m sorry. I know firsthand how shitty that feels.

There’s radio silence for a while. 

Too long.

Evan’s not sure what possesses him to do it, but he starts typing another message. 

Hits send before he has a chance to second guess himself. 

Regrets it instantly.

**EvHansen: **hey i know there’s like, the sketchbook that we use to sort of send messages back and forth, and i really like that because you’re a really good artist and i don’t wanna stop, but just so you know, you can always message me on here. Like, if you ever want someone to talk to. I’m kind of something of a duck with insomnia myself, so. Any time. If you want.

He sits in stiff, cramped silence, waiting and waiting and waiting, as no reply comes.

_ Seen _

Seconds tick on into minutes, and Evan’s mouth goes dry, and five minutes pass, then seven, then ten, and Evan has fucked up.

Evan has gotten too clingy too fast, and Connor’s probably well and truly weirded-out by now, and he wishes there was some way to take it back, even though it’s just as true now as it was ten--no, eleven--minutes ago. 

Evan tries to will himself to relax. He stretched out on his bed, flat on his back, and takes a few deep, steadying breaths. 

He keeps his phone locked in one hand, but he forces himself not to look at it.

Looking is only going to make him feel worse, he knows.

But when his phone screen suddenly lights up, he can’t help himself.

And it doesn't make him feel worse.

_ conmurph99 has requested to follow you. _

  
  
  
  



	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being kinda-sorta-maybe friends with Evan Hansen is… weird. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *tw for homophobic slurs (f slur) and discussion of bullying*  
HI HELLO NO THIS IS NOT ONE OF THOSE THINGS WHERE THE AUTHOR'S LIKE "YA SO I'M NOT UPDATING THIS ANYMORE" AFTER U GET A NOTIFICATION AND GET EXCITED AND THEN DISAPPOINTED OK THIS IS REAL.  
life be hard. that's my only explanation for the LITERAL MONTHS between these past chapters.  
ANYWAY i've missed writing for this story and mustard told me is good even tho this chapter is short for what i typically like to write so!!!! here is!!!!  
<3 thx for ur patience <3  
WHY AM I NERVOUS PLS GIVE ME VALIDATION
> 
> u can find us on tumblr at theyellowestmustard and c-e-c-r-o-p-i-a :)))

Being kinda-sorta-maybe friends with Evan Hansen is… weird. 

It’s not  _ bad _ . It’s not bad at all, in any capacity. It’s just… not what Connor was expecting, exactly. It’s not what he’d pictured all those times he’d lie in his bed and imagine what finally having an almost-friend would be like. 

Evan’s already established that he’s not a people person. Shit, Connor knew that right off the bat, the first time Evan wrote back to him. Every word was laced with self-doubt, anxiety; each letter carefully carved into the page like he was afraid of slipping up, of making an error. 

_ Thank you. I like yours too.  _

Connor rolls over with an almost-smile when his phone buzzes, and his almost-friend has sent him a message.  _ Another _ message. Like, Evan has responded to everything Connor’s sent him within minutes. And he isn’t just responding with stupid shit like ‘k’ or ‘yeah’. He’s, like. Sending paragraphs. Addressing every single thing Connor wrote in his last message, in order, with clarification and explanation. 

Meticulous. Just like his handwriting. 

But what Connor didn’t expect is for their sorta-friendship to exist solely online. Connor’s not complaining, really; any chance he can get to delay the inevitability of Evan’s disgust at who Connor is as a person, Connor will gladly take. And he’s not about to get greedy. It’s just…

Maybe Connor’s selfish. Like— alright, he’s definitely selfish. But… 

Just that one time in the hall, he got to talk to Evan. And it was… it wasn’t perfect, sure. And Connor got mad, but  _ Evan… _ he  _ didn’t _ . He didn’t shy away, he held his ground. Even when Connor was being a stupid fucking angry idiot and reading into shit that he shouldn’t have been reading into, and even when Evan’s the kind of person that constantly looks like his fight or flight settings have been rewired and the only thing he knows how to do is run. 

Connor guesses he’s the same, except he’s rewired to the  _ opposite _ one. 

But Evan  _ didn’t  _ revert to his faulty wiring, even when Connor did. He kept talking to Connor. And he gave Connor some stupid fucking drawings that make Connor’s chest feel all fluttery and gross just because he missed a couple days of school, and sometimes Connor will check his phone at lunch to see that Evan’s sent him some stupid fucking meme that almost makes him laugh out loud to himself like a lunatic, and. 

Connor’s just. 

He’s selfish. 

He just wants the real thing sometimes, alright? It’s like the first time he smoked; he got one taste of how much slower his blood raced and how it set this heavy curtain of fog over his stupid loud brain and he woke up the next morning craving it, chasing that feeling of feeling okay. 

And his maybe-probably-sorta friend Evan Hansen makes him feel almost okay, too. 

Once he’s able to tune out that voice telling him Evan’s out to get him. 

Which, uh. Doesn’t happen often. 

_ I think I’ve drawn everything there is to draw,  _ Evan’s message reads.  _ And also everything I draw is trash and I’ve never drawn anything of substance in my entire life, actually.  _

Connor purses his lips to hold back a smile even though he’s the only one in his room.  _ _

_ don’t think I can help u then,  _ Connor types,  _ bc same.  _

He glances over at his bedside table, lined with empty water glasses and dirty cereal bowls, topped with a book lying face-down that he hasn’t picked up in at least a couple of weeks and those wrinkled notebook pages Evan filled up just for him. Just because he was worried about him. 

Which should be weird. 

It’s not. 

Every time another cup ends up on his night stand, Connor makes sure those papers are left untouched. Within arm’s reach. Just in case. 

_ more mental health animals _ , Connor says. Demands.  _ do ocd or something _ . 

Evan starts typing his reply right away. 

_ I might have an idea. _

… 

Connor’s going to say something this time. 

He’s not just going to stand there like an idiot like he’s done every other time before. Except the only problem is that every time he sees Evan Hansen’s stupid face he thinks about the way Evan drew him, how he picked out Connor’s features and made him look the opposite of how Connor actually looks, and he thinks about how they haven’t really talked about that— well, how they’ve been purposefully ignoring that— and how fucking badly Connor wants to know the reason why. Why him, of all people? 

But he can’t think about that right now, because… because Connor’s going to  _ ask _ him this time. He is. He’s going to push every little dumbass doubt out of his stupid mind and he’s just going to do it. 

Because, like. Evan’s certainly not going to fucking do it. So Connor will take one for the team. 

It seems like Connor always spots Evan before Evan spots him, shuffling around the hallway and glancing to his left and right not unlike Connor does, keeping his head down. Maybe it’s because Connor’s always been an observant person, or maybe it’s because half the time Evan walks he’s looking at the ground. 

This time, though, Evan looks… a little more disheveled. He’s taking steadying breaths as he weaves through their classmates, barely squeaking by, and by the time he stops at Connor’s locker he looks more worked up than usual. 

If that’s even possible. 

And Connor watches Evan’s eyes as he glances up, follows his gaze, looks on as Evan does a double-take at the piece of ripped-out notebook paper stuck to Connor’s locker with a piece of gum. 

Typical. Of course it had to happen today. 

Connor just sighs, watching his boots as he approaches, setting his expression to neutral when he stops in front of Evan, a locker apart from each other. 

They don’t say anything for a moment. 

“Um…” Evan starts eventually, and Connor lifts his head to stare over Evan’s shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Connor says, flat. 

“Does that… happen a lot?” Evan asks timidly, shifting from foot to foot like he so often does. He’s holding tight to his backpack straps, pinching the material between his fingers, always fidgeting. 

“Only always,” Connor deadpans, drumming his fingers on his crossed arms. When he meets Evan’s eyes they’re soft, concerned. 

“Oh,” Evan says back. 

A group of giggling girls push past them, glancing back and snickering to each other. Evan hunches in on himself. 

“Are you, uh… are you gonna take it down, or…?”

Connor takes a long breath in, letting it out slowly and leaning his shoulder against the lockers. He trains his eyes on the ceiling, dirty with years of brown water stains and various other liquid spills. “After the bell rings,” Connor says, twisting a ring around his middle finger. “Don’t wanna give them the satisfaction.”

“Oh, um— yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

People are whispering now, pointing as they pass. 

Evan looks like he wants to be anywhere but here. 

“You can go,” Connor tells him. “I can just… swing by your locker later to get the book. It’s fine. You don’t have to...”

“No,” Evan insists, eyes wide. And then he shakes his head, backtracking. “I mean— like. I’m… that’s actually what I wanted to… to say, um.” He takes a much needed breath. “I don’t… have it.”

Connor blinks at him. He pointedly ignores the people rushing past him, knocking into him. “You don’t have it.”

“No, I uh. I forgot it at home. I’m— I’m sorry, like, I know it’s your turn with it and everything, so—“

“No, it’s— it’s your book, it’s fine, I’ll just—“

“But if you wanted to stop by my house later and get it we could do that but like no pressure if you don’t want to?” 

Connor stops. Evan’s eyes are shut, and it looks like he’s holding his breath. His cheeks are very adorably red. 

The thought makes Connor’s chest feel kinda funny. 

“Uh,” Connor replies intelligently. 

“If you don’t want to I get it, like— like, forget I even asked, I can just bring it tomorrow, it’s— I’ll just—“

Evan goes to leave, to push past Connor. 

“Hey,” Connor says softly, stepping to the side so Evan has no choice but to stop in his tracks, knuckles white on the straps of his backpack. 

Evan’s looking at his hoodie strings. 

_ Just fucking do it, Murphy _ . 

“I could just… take you home, too. If you wanted,” Connor offers, “Unless you already have a ride…”

The hallways are clearing. Evan glances around like he’s just remembered that they’re between classes, shifting back and forth. 

“Yeah, um— okay,” Evan laughs, and Connor’s not sure if it’s out of anxiety or excitement. “Meet me here? After the bell? I’ll tell Jared… something.”

“Yeah,” Connor agrees, and Evan shuffles past him. 

And then he stops. Turns around. 

“I’ll, uh… I’ll see you?”

Connor’s pretty sure that Evan Hansen is the epitome of the word rigid, every muscle tensed as if he’s bracing for impact even when he’s just standing there. 

Connor feels the corner of his mouth pull upward without his permission. 

“See ya,” Connor says back, watching Evan race down the hall. And he swears he hears Evan say something like  _ okay _ or  _ cool _ , but he’s probably just imagining things because that would be weird. 

But Evan’s weird, so it’s entirely possible. 

Connor likes that. He likes that Evan’s weird. 

As the bell echoes around him, he pushes off of the lockers and turns around to his own. 

In scrawled graphite, every letter angry and drawn over three times or more:

_ FAG _ . 

He rips it down, crumbling it into a ball and using the sharp edges of the crushed paper as an anchor in his palm, grounding him as the blood pounding in his ears grows louder. 

And when he doesn’t have the paper to ground him anymore, after he’s thrown it in the trash and he’s stalking angrily down the hall, he remembers. 

He didn’t even have to ask. 

Evan asked  _ him _ . 

Connor’s going to go to his house. 

Connor’s going to drive him  _ home _ . 

And for some reason… it makes him feel sort of sick. Like… like all of this is going to end. The illusion will be over, the curtain will pull back and it’ll just be…  _ Connor _ . He won’t be able to hide behind a screen or a piece of sketchbook paper and a pencil. 

But the end is inevitable, isn’t it?


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evan is an idiot, and this was a bad idea. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello buddies, pals and chums! We're back!!!
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter - it's been a while since I've worked on this collab and I've missed it! So I had a lot of fun writing this part :))  
As always, comments give us LIFE. You can also drop us a line on Tumblr! @theyellowestmustard and @c-e-c-r-o-p-i-a 
> 
> <3 Mustard xox
> 
> (No TW that I can think of! You should be safe to proceed!)

* * *

This was a bad idea.

Evan is an idiot, and this was a bad idea. 

Evan should have anticipated this, honestly. Most of Evan's ideas are bad ones. But usually when Evan has a bad idea that he puts into action, it's like. At the expense of his  _ own _ dignity. Not somebody  _ else's. _

He should've had the book waiting and ready by the door. So he could just jump out of Connor's car, dart inside, throw it in Connor's general direction and go back to being a shut-in like he's good at.

He _should've_ just brought the goddamn book to school in the _first _place, Jesus fuck what the fuck is _wrong _with him?

_'You want the full laundry list?' _spits a vicious little voice from the furthest recess of Evan's brain. _'Because we'll be here a while.'_

It had  _ seemed _ like a good idea at the time.

"Forgetting" the book.

In some fucking cheesy, syrupy fantasy conjured up god-knows where, Connor would show up at Evan's, completely forget about the book because Evan is Such Excellent Company, make himself at home on the couch while they watch movies and play video games, stay for dinner with Evan and his mom, then hang around with Evan until two in the morning while they express their deepest darkest secrets to each other.

Because apparently Evan's gotten his definition of friendship from the fucking Disney Channel.

Evan's realization that This Was A Bad Idea first started to kick in when he got into Connor's car.

The uneasy silence was Evan's fault. He's sure of it. He could've said something,  _ should've _ said something, even just a  _ "what's up?"  _ or a  _ "thanks for the ride"  _ or just... _ something _ . 

Not just a pathetic little squeak of  _ "hi" _ and then  _ nothing else.  _

Connor watched him. He watched him the entire trip, Evan's almost positive; he kept feeling the distinct crawl of eyes over his skin like spider-legs. Creeping from his hairline down his neck and back again, furtive and sneaky, straining from the corners of Connor's peripherals.

Evan had stared straight ahead and done his best to ignore it.

And hoped he didn't have, like. Food on his face or visible sweat on his upper lip.

He'd heard Connor's mouth open a few times; the soft click of a tongue and a shallow intake of breath like he was about to say something.

But he never did.

Not until they were just about at Evan's driveway.

"This one?" Connor had asked softly.

Evan only just managed to choke out a  _ "yeah-this-is-it" _ before his voice cracked.

Which was the second indicator that This Was A Bad Idea.

God, what the fuck is  _ wrong  _ with him?

Things had been going smoothly. Better than smoothly; they were going  _ well.  _ Evan had a friend, and things were going well, and now things are no longer going well because Evan expects way too much from people, obviously. Couldn’t he have just...been satisfied with texting? Like, Evan sucks at eye contact and natural hand gestures and breathing at the right points in long sentences anyway. Why the fuck did he  _ want  _ a face-to-face thing to even  _ happen? _

He vaguely wonders if it’s some sort of self-sabotage.

He wouldn’t put it past himself.

Connor pulls into Evan’s driveway. He drives way more slowly and carefully than Evan would’ve expected from him, and he can’t help but wonder if Connor handles a car differently when he’s alone. The tires scatter the broken-up asphalt, and Evan uses the sound to mask an awkward clearing of the throat.

And then it’s quiet.

Fuck.

“Um--” says Evan, too loud, right as Connor goes “So--”, too softly. It almost gets swept away under Evan’s stupid voice, but Evan’s too hyper-aware not to catch it and he snaps his mouth shut and stupidly gestures for Connor to talk first.

The corner of Connor’s mouth twitches up in amusement. 

Evan’s sweating.

“So,” Connor says again, pitched up in a way that’s almost casual but a little too tightly-wound to be convincing. “The, uh. The book?”

_ "Yeahrightokay," _ says Evan, which makes Connor's mouth twitch even more. He presses his lips together into this thin white line, like he's trying to hold back laughter, and it makes his eyes brighten and his chin go all dimply.

And.

And Evan is looking way too closely at Connor's face why is he doing that he should probably stop that it's getting weird it's getting really weird--

" _ D-do you wanna come? In?" _ says Evan, and immediately feels his entire head turn red-hot when he realizes where his dumbass brain has decided to pause.

Jesus  _ Christ _ .

“Uh,” says Connor, and his voice is openly wobbling with laughter now, the swallowed-back giggles cutting through the tension in the car like a hot knife through butter. "Uh, sure, but. Uh. Only if you don't mind me leaving a mess...age for my parents first?"

It takes an embarrassing amount of time for Connor's filthy fucking joke to sink in.

Like. Way too long. Evan just sits there in expressionless silence, his brain ticking like a goddamn grandfather clock until his internal monologue finally goes  _ ...oh my god. _

Connor waits in silence too. His lips are still pursed to hold back a giggle, but there’s a little hesitance around his eyes. Like he's not sure if he's gone too far.

And then, in a moment completely beyond Evan's control, Evan goes  _ "PFFTTT--" _

It's almost a raspberry, the way the air is pushed past Evan's lips, abruptly loud and messy, and then Evan is giggling wildly with burning cheeks and hot, watery eyes, and Connor is laughing right along with him; these uncontrollable giggles that bubble out like Connor's spent years trying to hold them back. Evan gasps out an  _ "Oh my  _ _ god," _ and Connor goes "Sorry, that was terrible," through his own enormous grin, and Evan just shakes his head, pressing his palms against the edges of his smile like he's trying to push it back into submission. 

It takes them a few minutes to calm down. They breathe, little giggly breaths, and they don't look at each other, because this whole thing is still, like. Awkward as fuck. Because they're only kind-of friends, kind-of hanging out for the first time, kind-of, and Evan's got no idea whether Connor  _ also _ feels like they've known each other all their lives or if that's just a weird vibe that's completely one-sided. 

And also Connor just made an  _ orgasm joke.  _

But the worst of the tension has dissipated. Which is a start.

Connor collects himself first, turning to Evan and finally looking him in the eye, which immediately makes Evan feel squirmy because, like. Eye contact. 

"Okay but in actual answer to your question though, yeah? I'd be down to come in for a bit?" 

"Okay," Evan breathes, and Connor goes "Cool," and then they're slamming car doors and walking up Evan's driveway and heading into Evan's house.

And it's only then, only once they're inside and the door is closed behind them, once they've kicked off their shoes and Connor's gazing curiously around Evan's living room like he's taking it all in, that the silence returns. Like they've turned to a new page in a book, a blank one, and it feels like they're right back to square one and Evan has no idea what to say. Like...should he offer to give Connor a tour? Should he sit on the couch and hope that Connor sits too? Maybe he should offer Connor something to drink, or invite him up to his room - only Evan's not sure how to phrase that without it sounding like…like something  _ else. _

It's  _ weird _ having a kind-of friend.

The book. Maybe Evan ought to just...focus on the book. That's the reason Connor came, after all. 

Maybe it would be best if he just gave him the book and got him the hell out of here before Evan gets the chance to fuck everything up.

"The book," Evan says, numbly, because he's suddenly just desperate to fill the silence. "The book's in my room. I'll just…"

And without even bothering to finish the thought Evan scurries out of the room, head down and palms sweating, and takes the stairs two at a time. 

_ Get the book. _

_ Get him out. _

_ End this before you make it any worse. _

The good thing is that Evan knows exactly where the book is. It's in easy access, right on his nightstand, which is close to the bedroom door. He could probably grab it and be back downstairs within thirty seconds, tops.

The bad news is that Evan hadn't counted on being followed.

He feels his breathing quicken and his shoulders stiffen the moment he hears Connor's boots climbing up the stairs right behind him, and he forces himself to keep going and feign nonchalance even though he's suddenly hit with an electric burst of nerves. 

Fuck, what if his meds are in full view on his nightstand? What if he's left his pajamas on his bed? What if he's  _ forgotten to close his underwear drawer? _

Evan shuffles into his bedroom and gives the space a frantic once-over. 

Thankfully, he doesn't spot a single one of his 'what ifs'. 

He grabs the book, and is just about to shove it blindly in Connor's direction, when Connor kind of...steps right past him, moving cautiously into Evan's space and glancing around with a kind of hesitant interest. 

Evan, rather robotically, takes a step back and lets him. 

Waits for the verdict. 

Waits for Connor to find something weird or embarrassing or…

"Wow, that's--" murmurs Connor, in low bemusement. "That's a lot of blankets." 

Evan's eyes fly to his bed, even though he already knows what it looks like. Connor's right; there's a sheet and a quilt and a zipped-open sleeping bag and also like five fucking blankets all piled up on Evan's bed, and Evan hadn't stopped to consider that yeah, that's probably not a thing that normal people do. 

"Um," says Evan.

"Do you just get, like, super cold at night, or…?"

Connor's looking at him curiously, his face open and honest without a hint of judgement, or the snide little jabs he's used to seeing form on Jared's face before he voices them, and Evan's not sure why but he opens his mouth and just--

"It's more a, uh-- a weight thing? It's, uh. I have trouble sleeping sometimes. Y’know...the, uh--the duck with insomnia? And it's--it's one of the only things that helps."

Ordinarily, Evan supposes this would be one of those moments where he'd immediately regret saying anything, because who the fuck opens up about their anxiety-induced insomnia with someone who's just barely a casual acquaintance? But the thing is Connor doesn't give him a  _ chance _ to regret it, because his expression doesn't falter, not even a little bit, and he nods and softly goes, "Yeah, that's...yeah. I, uh. Tried a weighted blanket once but wasn't really into it? But, uh. I do get. What that's like, y'know?" 

And Evan is so taken aback by this, by Connor's quiet, shaky honesty, that he doesn't know what to say, he just... _ stands _ there like the useless idiot he is, and the silence swells and thickens and bloats and it's awful and then Connor blurts out,  _ "Sorry, by the way." _

And Evan's not sure which is more surprising; Connor's apology or the fact that it's  _ Connor _ who’s tried to fill the uncomfortable silence.

"W-why, though, what do you mean?"

"Just," says Connor, on a frustrated sigh. "I didn't mean to make it about me. I'm...a dick like that. And also, just...sorry that you can't sleep? That's...that really sucks."

"Oh," says Evan. "I didn't, um. Didn't think that's what you were doing? It's... sometimes it's nice to, like. Commiserate with someone? Not that I  _ want _ you to never sleep or anything, that's not-- I just mean--"

"I get it," Connor says.

And for whatever reason, Evan doesn't feel like he's saying it just to shut Evan up.

Connor wanders around Evan's room in silence, walking an aimless, teetering lap. It should feel invasive, but it doesn't - though admittedly Evan's still afraid of Connor finding something about Evan he hates, some little detail revealed through his knickknacks and books and piles of clothes. Evan stands, still clutching the book in one sweaty hand, waiting for Connor to take the lead; desperately hoping Connor knows more about normal human interaction than he does.

"Hey, you've been holding out on me," Connor pipes up from where he's hovering over Evan's desk, and Evan almost trips in his hurry to see what Connor's talking about.

He's peering down at a few scattered pieces of paper; not touching anything, just looking at what's on the surface. Drawings, all of them; ones Evan had done when Connor had been Book-keeper. It's Evan's usual; nature bullshit, only on one particular sketch he'd gone for way more detail than normal. It's a cluster of hyacinths in all different colors, sketched in bright Crayola pencils, with every last petal fleshed out. Evan had been playing around with using reference photos, and had done his best to capture the image  _ exactly _ right. He's actually pretty proud of it. It's one of the best he's ever done.

"Oh, that," Evan stammers. "It's--it's not even that good, really."

"Shut up," says Connor plainly. "Don't do that. It's good. Own it."

"I... I guess it's...not bad?" 

Connor rolls his eyes.

Evan's stomach drops.

"There's a difference between being humble and being  _ blind.  _ You don't have to, like. Do that, you know?"

Evan knows. 

He gets it.

But he just.  _ Can't. _

"Well, um. Thank you? I, uh. Appreciate that  _ you  _ think it's good because you're like, a really good artist and you could probably do way better than this and--"

"You think I could do  _ better? _ " Connor says, sounding baffled, almost  _ annoyed _ . "Nothing of mine even comes  _ close _ to this, are you kidding?"

"That's--that's not true at  _ all--" _

"Oh yeah? Gimme a pencil."

It doesn’t strike Evan as odd, at the time, that Connor is challenging him as to who is the  _ worst _ artist. He simply does as he’s told, fumbling around at his desk and passing Connor a pencil and a sheet of paper, and Connor sinks into Evan’s desk chair and silently begins to sketch.

“You should draw something too,” Connor mumbles, deep in concentration. “Don’t just stand there watching me, you’ll make me fuck it up.”

_ “Right,”  _ Evan gasps. “Right,  _ sorry…” _

Evan sits on the edge of his bed, opens the book that’s still clenched tightly in his hand, and starts mindlessly re-drawing his hyacinth picture from memory, too wound-up to find the inspiration to draw anything else.

It’s quiet, and a little tense. Evan hears every drag of pencil on paper, every shift of Connor’s weight in the chair, practically hears each bead of sweat as it collects in the back of his neck. And yeah, he also hears, in his head, all the ways this afternoon has gone completely wrong;  _ ‘don’t just stand there watching me’,  _ and  _ ‘do you wanna come’  _ and long, dragging pauses; endless and unpleasant.

But Connor is sitting at Evan’s desk. And they’re drawing together.

Kind-of.

And it doesn’t seem like Connor  _ completely _ hates him  _ just  _ yet.

Connor is still Evan’s kind-of friend.

Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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